University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 
Mrs.  Domenico  Saudino 


L^  M^ 


/fern* 


L> 


AN 


ABRIDGMENT 

OF 


LECTURES 


OK 


RHETORIC. 


by  HUGH  BLAIR,   d.  d. 


REVISED  AND  CORRECTED. 


PRINTED  BY  L  THOMAS  Etf  E.  T.  ANDREWS. 

Sold  at  their  Bookftore,  N  >  45.  Newbury  Street  ;  by  faid  Thomas, 

in  Worcefler  ;  by  O.  Pen  him  an  ?5T  Co.  in  'Troy  ;  and  by 

Thomas,  Andrews,  fcf  Butler,  in  Baltimore* 

MAT,    1803. 


Advertifcment. 

rnr-i 

±  HE  want  of  a  fyftem  of  Rhetoric  upon 
a  concife  plan,  and  at  an  eafy  price  will, 
it  is  prefumed,  render  this  little  volume 
acceptable  to  the  public.  To  colled: 
knowledge,  which  is  fcattered  over  a  wide 
extent,  into  a  fmall  compafs,  if  it  has  not 
the  merit  of  originality,  has  at  leaft  the 
advantage  of  being  ufeful.  Many,  who 
are  terrified  at  the  idea  of  travelling  over 
a  ponderous  volume  in  fearch  of  informa- 
tion, will  yet  fet  out  on  a  fhort  journey  ia 
purfuit  of  fcience  with  alacrity  and  profit* 
Thofe  for  whom  the  following  Eflays  are 
principally  intended,  will  derive  peculiar 
benefit  from  the  brevity,  with  which  they 
are  conveyed.  To  youth,  who  are  en- 
gaged in  the  rudiments  of  learning;  whofe 
time  and  attention  muft  be  occupied  by  a 
variety  of  fubjedts,  every  branch  of  fcience 
fhould  be  rendered  as  concife  as  poflible. 
Hence  the  attention  is  not  fatigued,  nor 
the  memory  overloaded. 


IV  ADVERtlSEMENT. 

That  a  knowledge  of  Rhetoric  forms  a 
very  material  part  of  the  education  of  a 
polite  fcholar  muft  be  univerfally  allowed. 
Any  attempt  therefore,  however  imper- 
fed:,  to  make  fo  ufeful  an  art  more  gen- 
erally known,  has  claim  to  that  praifc 
which  is  the  reward  of  good  intention. 
With  this,  the  Editor  will  be  fufficiently 
fatisfied  ;  fince  being  ferviceable  to  others 
is  the  moft  agreeable  method  of  becoming 
contented  with  ourfelves. 


CONTENTS. 

Introduction  page 

On  Tap I 

Criticifm.     Genius*     Pleafures  of  Tajle.      Sublim- 
ity in  Objects                                                   -  r 
Sublimity  in  Writing            -           -           -           -  14 
Beauty  and  other  Pleafures  of Tafle      -           -  23 
Origin  and  Progrefs  of  Language              -           -  g  1 
Rife  and  Progrefs  of  Language  and  of  Writing  39 
StruElure  of  Language               -  44 
Siruclure  of  Language.      EngUJh  Tongue            -  49 
Style,      Perfpicuity  and  Precifion          -           -  rg 
Structure  of  Sentences  Co 
The  fame  Subjecl             -           -           -           •  65 
StruBure  of  Sentences.     Harmony             -          »  71 
Origin  and  Nature  of  Figurative  Language      -  78 
Metaphor        -           -           -           -           -           .  83 
Hyperbole— Apoftrophe               -           -           •  gg 
Perfonif  cation  and  Apojlrophe         -           -           -  go 
Comparifon,    Antithefts,  Interrogation,  Exclama- 
tion* and  other  Figures  of  Speech      -           -  04 
Antithefis        -           -           -           -           -           m  m 
Interrogation  and  Exclamation              -           -  og 
Vifion  and  Climax                »           -          -          •  QO 
General  Characlers  of  Style.     Dijfufe,  Concife— 
Feeble*  Nervous— Dry,  Plain,  Neat,  Elegant, 
Flowery            -  i00 
Style.      Simple,  Ajfecled,  Vehement.      Direclions 
for  forming  a  proper  Style           »          •          -  I  q£ 
A2 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

FACE 

Critical  Examination  of  Mr.  Addifon's   Style  in 

No.  411  cfthe  Speclator        -           -           *  113-. 
Eloquence.     Origin  of  Eloquence.      Grecian  Elo- 
quence.    Demofihenes       -           -           -  123 
Roman  Eloquence.     Cicero.     Modern  Eloquence,  128 
Eloquence  of  Popular  AJfemblies            -           -  134 
Eloquence  of  the  Bar            -           -           «           *  1 3  7 
Eloquence  of  the  Pulpit              -           -           -.  143 
ConduEl  of  a  Difcourfe  in  all  its  Parts.      Introduc- 
tion) Divi/totty  Narration^  and  Explication         -  148 
The  Argumentative  Part  of  a  Difcourfe >,   the  Pa- 
thetic Part  >  and  the  Peroration          -           -  155 
Pronunciation  or  Delivery               -           -           -  160 
Means  of  improving  in  Eloquence         -           -  169 
Comparative  Merit  of  the  Ancients  and  Moderns  176 
Hiflorical  Writing            .           -           -           -  179, 
Philofcphical  Writing  and  Dialogue         -          -  1 84 
Epifolary  Writing           -           -           n           -  185 
Fitlithus  Hiflory            -           -           -.           -  1 86 
Nature  of  Poetry.     Its  Origin  and  Progrefs— 

Fer/if cation           -           -           -           -  1 8  8 

Englifh  Verffication          -           -           -           -  189 

Paf  oral  Poetry         -           -           -           -  192 

Lyric  Poetry          -           -           -           -           -  197 

DidaBic  Poetry         -           -           -           -           -  199 

Defcriptive  Poetry            ■»           -           «           -  202 

The  Poetry  of  the  Hebrews            -          -          -  206 

Epic  Poetry            -           -           -           -           -  2ip 

Homtr's  Iliad  and  Odyffey              -           -           -  215 

The  JEneid  of  Virgil       -           -           -  219 
Lucaris  Pharfalia               -          -           -          -32,1 


CONTENTS.  M 

tAGZ 

Taffo's  Jerufalem              -  -           -           -           224 

The  Luftad  of  Camoens       -  226 

The  Telemachus  of  Fenelon  -           -           -           228 

The  Henriade  of  Voltaire     -  229 

Milton's  Paradife  Loft     -  -           -           -           231 

Dramatic  Poetry.     Tragedy  ...        234 

Greek  Tragedy       -----  245 

French  Tragedy          -  •           -           -247 

EngUfh  Tragedy               -  -           -           *           248 
Comedy            ------        250 

Ancient  Comedy     -           -  -           -           -           253 

Spani/h  Comedy         -           -  -           -                    255 

prench  Comedy      -           -  -           -           -           256 

£nglijh  Comedy        -           -  *          *          -257 


INTRODUCTION. 


A 


PROPER  acquaintance  with  the  circle  of 
Liberal  Arts  is  requifite  to  the  ftudy  of  Rhetor- 
ic and  Belles  Lettres.  To  extend  the  knowl- 
edge of  them  muft  be  the  firft  care  of  thofe, 
who  wifli  either  to  write  with  reputation,  or  fo 
to  exprefs  themfelves  in  public,  as  to  command 
attention.  Among  the  ancients  it  was  an 
cffential  principle,  that  the  orator  ought  to  be 
converfant  in  every  department  of  learning. 
No  art  indeed  can  be  contrived,  which  can  ftamp 
merit  on  a  compofition,  rich  or  fplendid  in  ex- 
preffion,  but  barren  or  erroneous  in  fentiment. 
Oratory,  it  is  true,  has  often  been  difgraced  by 
attempts  to  eftabiifh  a  falfe  criterion  of  its  value. 
"Writers  have  endeavoured  to  fupply  want  of 
matter  by  graces  of  compofition  ;  and  courted 
the  temporary  applaufe  of  the  ignorant,  inftead 
of  the  lafting  approbation  of  the  difcerning.  But 
fuch  impofture  muft  be  fhort  and  tranfitory. 
The  body  and  fubftance  of  any  valuable  compo- 
fition muft  be  formed  of  knowledge  and  fcience. 
Rhetoric  completes  the  ftru&ure,  and  adds  the 
polifh  ;  but  firm  and  folid  bodies  only  are  able 
to  receive  it. 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

Among  the  learned  it  has  long,  been  a  con- 
tefted,  and  remains  (till  an  undecided  queftion, 
whether  Nature  or  Art  contribute  moft  toward 
excellence  in  writing  and  difcourfe.  Various 
may  be  the  opinions  vith  refpect  to  the  manner, 
in  which  Art  can  molt  effe&ually  furnifli  aid 
for  fuch  a  purpofe  ;  and  it  were  prefumption 
to  aflfart,  that  rhetorical  rules,  how  juft  foever, 
are  fufficient  to  form  an  orator.  Private  ap- 
plication and  itudy,  fuppofing  natural  genius 
to  be  favourable,  are  certainly  fuperior  to  any 
fyitem  of  public  inltra£tion.  But,  though  rules 
and  inftru&ions  cannot  effect  every  thing  which 
is  requifite,  they  may  be  of  confiderable  ufe. 
If  they  cannot  infpire  genius,  they  can  give  it 
direction  and  affiltance.  If  they  cannot  make 
barrennefs  fruitful,  they  can  correct  redundan- 
cy. They  prefent  proper  models  for  imitation  ; 
they  point  out  the  principal  beauties  which 
ought  to  be  ftudied,  and  the  chief  faults  which 
ought  to  be  avoided ;  and  confequently  tend  to 
enlighten  Tafte,  and  to  conduct  Genius  from 
unnatural  deviations  into  its  proper  channel. 
Though  they  are  incapable  of  producing  great 
excellencies ;  they  may  at  leaft  ferve  to  prevent 
confiderable  miftakes. 

In  the  education  of  youth,  no  obje£t  has  ap-. 
peared  more  important  to  wife  men  in  every  age, 
than  to  excite  in  them  an  early  relifh  for  tha 


INTRODUCTION.  Xi 

entertainments  of  Tafte.  From  thefe  to  the 
difcharge  of  the  higher  and  more  important  du- 
ties of  life  the  tranfition  is  natural  and  eafy.  Of 
thofe  minds,  which  have  this  elegant  and  liberal 
turn,  the  mod  pleafing  hopes  may  be  entertain- 
ed. On  the  contrary,  entire  infenfibility  to  elo- 
quence, poetry,  or  any  of  the  fine  arts,  may 
juftly  be  confidered  as  a  bad  fymptom  in  youth  j 
and  fuppofes  them  inclined  to  low  gratifications, 
or  capable  of  being  engaged  only  in  the  com- 
mon purfuits  of  life. 

Improvement  of  Tafte  feems  to  be  more  or 
lefs  conne&ed  with  every  good  and  virtuous 
dilpofition.  By  giving  frequent  exercre  to  the 
tender  and  humane  paflions,  a  cultivated  tale  in- 
creafes  fenfibility  ;  yet  at  the  fane  time  it  tends 
to  foften  the  more  violent  and  angry  emotions. 

Ingenuas  didicijfe  jideliter  artes 
JEmollit  mores ,  nee  fait  ejfe  feros* 

Thefe  polifli'd  arts  have  humamz'd  mankind, 
Soften'd  the  rude,  and  calm'd  the  boifterous  mind. 

Poetry,  Eloquence  and  Hiftory  continually 
exhibit  to  our  view  thofe  elevated  fentiments 
and  high  examples,  which  tend  to  nourifh  in  our 
minds  public  fpirit,  love  of  glory,  contempt  of 
external  fortune,  and  admiration  of  every  thing 
truly  great,  noble,  and  illuftrious. 


T     A     S     T     E. 


X  ASTE  is  *  the  power  of  receiving  pleafurc 
u  or  pain  from  the  beauties  or  deformities  of  Nature 
u  and  of  Art."  It  is  a  faculty  common  in  fome  de- 
gree to  all  men.  Through  the  circle  of  human  na- 
ture, nothing  is  more  general,  than  the  relifh  of  Beau- 
ty of  one  kind  or  other ;  of  what  is  orderly,  propor- 
tioned, grand,  harmonious,  new,  or  fprightly.  Ncr 
does  there  prevail  lefs  generally  a  difrelifh  of  what- 
ever is  grofs,  difproportioned,  disorderly,  and  difcord- 
ant.  In  children  the  rudiments  of  Tafte  appear  very 
early  in  a  thoufand  inftances  ;  in  their  partiality  for 
regular  bodies,  their  fondnefs  for  pidtures  and  ftatues, 
and  their  warm  attachment  to  whatever  is  new  or 
aftonifhing.  The  mod  ffcupid  peafants  receive  pleafure 
from  tales  and  ballads,  and  are  delighted  with  the 
beautiful  appearances  of  nature  in  the  earth  and 
heavens.  Even  in  the  deferts  of  America,  where  hu- 
man nature  appears'in  its  mod  uncultivated  date,  the 
favages  have  their  ornaments  of  drefs,  their  war  and 
their  death  fongs,  their  harangues  and  their  orators. 
The  principles  of  Tafte  mud  therefore  be  deeply 
founded  in  the  human  mind.  To  have  fome  difcern- 
ment  of  Beauty  is  no  lefs  efTential  to  man,  than  to 
poflefs  the  attributes  of  fpeech  and  reafon. 
B 


^  TASTE. 

Though  no  human  being  can  be  entirely  devoid  of 
this  faculty,  yet  it  is  poffeffed  in  very  different  degrees. 
In  fome  men  only  faint  glimmerings  of  Tafte  are 
vifible  ;  the  beauties,  which  they  relifh  are  of  the 
coarfeft  kind  ;  and  of  thefe  they  have  only  a  weak  and 
confufed  impreffion  ;  while  in  others  Tafte  rifes  to  an 
acute  discernment,  and  a  lively  enjoyment  of  the  mod 
refined  beauties. 

This  inequality  of  Tafte  among  men  is  to  be  af- 
cribed  undoubtedly  in  part  to  the  different  frame  of 
their  natures  ;  to  nicer  organs,  and  more  delicate  in- 
ternal powers,  with  which  fome  are  endued  beyond 
others  ;  yet  it  is  owing  ftill  more  to  culture  and  edu- 
cation. Tafte  is  certainly  one  of  the  mod  improvea- 
ble  faculties  of  our  nature.  We  may  eafily  be  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  this  affertion  by  only  reflecting 
on  that  immenfe  fuperiority,  which  education  and 
improvement  give  to  civilized  above  barbarous  nations 
in  refinement  of  Tafte  ;  and  on  the  advantage,  which 
they  give  in  the  fame  nation  to  thofe,  who  have  ftudi- 
ed  the  liberal  arts,  above  the  rude  and  illiterate  vulgar. 

Reafon  and  good  fenfe  have  fo  extenfive  an  influence 
on  all  the  operations  and  decifions  of  Tafte,  that  a 
completely  good  Tafte  may  well  be  confidered,  as  a 
power  compounded  of  natural  fenfibility  to  beauty  and 
of  improved  underftanding.  To  be  fatisfied  of  this, 
we  may  obferve,  that  the  greater  part  of  the  produc- 
tions of  Genius  are  no  other  than  imitations  of  na- 
ture ;  reprefentations  of  the  characters,  actions,  or 
manners  of  men.  Now  the  pleafure  we  experience 
from  fuch  imitations  or  reprefentations  is  founded 
%n  mere  Tafte  y  but  to  judge,  whether  they  be  proper- 


TASTE.  2 

ly  executed,  belongs  to  the  underftanding,  which  com- 
pares the  copy  with  the  original. 

In  reading,  for  inftance,  the  JEneid  of  Virgil  a 
great  part  of  our  pleafure  arifes  from  the  proper  con- 
duct of  the  plan  or  (lory  j  from  all  the  parts  being- 
joined  together  with  probability  and  due  connexion  ; 
from  the  adoption  of  the  characters  from  nature,  the 
correfpondence  of  the  fentiments  to  the  characters, 
and  of  the  ftyle  to  the  fentiments.  The  pleafure, 
which  is  derived  from  a  poem  fo  conducted,  is  felt  or 
enjoyed  by  Tafte,  as  an  internal  fenfe  ;  but  the  dif- 
eovery  of  this  conduit  in  the  poem  is  owing  to  reafon  ; 
and  the  more  reafon  enables  us  to  difcover  fuch  pro- 
priety in  the  condu£t,  the  greater  will  be  our  pleafure. 

The  conftituent9  of  Tafle,  when  brought  to  its  meft 
perfect  ftate,  are  two,  Delicacy  and  CorreQnefs. 

Delicacy  of  Tafte  refers  principally  to  the  perfection 
of  that  natural  fenfibility,  on  which  Tafte  is  founded. 
It  implies  thofe  finer  organs  or  powers,  which  enable 
us  to  difcover  beauties,  that  are  concealed  from  a  vul- 
gar eye.  It  is  judged  of  by  the  fame. marks,  that  we 
employ  in  judging  of  the  delicacy  of  an  external  fenfe. 
As  the  goodnefs  of  the  palate  is  not  tried  by  ftrong 
flavours,  but  by  a  mixture  of  ingredients,  where,  not- 
withftanding  the  confufion,  we  remain  fenfible  of 
each  ;  fo  delicacy  of  internal  Tafte  appears  by  a  quick 
and  lively  fenfibility  to  its  fined,  moft  compounded,, 
or  moft  latent  objects* 

Corre&nefs  of  Tafte  refpecls  the  improvement  this 
faculty  receives  through  its  connexion  with  the  un- 
derstanding. A  man  of  correct  Tafte  is  one,  who  is 
never  impofed  on  by  counterfeit  beauties  ;  who  carries 
always  in  his  own  mind  that  ftandard  of  good  fenfe,, 


4  T  A  S  T  li. 

"which  he  employs  in  judging  of  every  thing.  He  el* 
timates  with  propriety  the  relative  merit  of  the  feveraL 
beauties,  which  he  meets  in  any  work  of  genius ;  re- 
fers them  to  their  proper  clafFes  5  affigns  the  principles 
as  far  as  they  can  be  traced,  whence  their  power  of 
pl.ea.0ng  is  derived  ;  and  is  pleafed  himfelf  precifely 
in  that  degree,  in  which  he  ought,  and  no  more, 

Tade  is  certainly  not  an  arbitrary  principle,  which 
is  fubjedt  to  the  fancy  of  every  individual,  and  which 
admits  no  criterion  for  determining,  whether  it  be 
true  or  falfe.  Its  foundation  is  the  fame  in  every  hu- 
man mind.  It  is  built  upon  fentiments  and  percep- 
tions, which  are  infeparable  from  our  nature ;  and 
which  generally  operate  with  the  fame  uniformity,  a3 
our  ether  intellectual  principles.  When  thefe  fenti- 
ments are  perverted  by  ignorance  or  prejudice,  they 
may  be  rectified  by  reafon.  Their  found  and  natural 
(late  is  finally  determined  by  comparing  them'  with 
the  general  Tade  of  mankind.  Let  men  declaim  as 
much  as  they  pleafe,  concerning  the  caprice  and  un- 
certainty of  Tade  ;  it  is  found  by  experience,  that 
there  are  beauties,  which  if  difplayed  in  a  proper  light, 
have  power  to  command  lading  and  univerfal  admira- 
tion. In  every  composition,  what  interefts  the  imag- 
ination, and  touches  the  heart,  gives  pleafure  to  all 
ages  and  nations.  There  is  a  certain  itring,  which 
being  properly  druck,  the  human  heart  is  fo  made,  as 
to  accord  to  it. 

Hence  the  univerfal.  tediraony,  which  the  mod  im- 
proved nations  of  the  earth  through  a  long  feries  of 
£ges  have  concurred  to  bedow  on  fome  few  works  of 
genius  ;  fuch  as  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  and  the  iEneid 
•f  Virgii.     Hence  the  authority,   which  fuch  works* 


CRITICISM.  5 

have  obtained,  as  ftandards  of  poetical  compofition  ; 
fince  by  them  we  are  enabled  to  collect,  what  the  fenfe 
of  mankind  is  with  refpecl:  to  thofe  beauties,  which 
give  them  the  higheft  pleafure,  and  which  therefore 
poetry  ought  to  exhibit.  Authority  or  prejudice  may 
in  one  age  or  country  give  a  fhort-lived  reputation  to 
an  indifferent  poet,  or  a  bad  artift  ;  but,  when  foreign- 
ers, or  pofterity  examine  his  works,  his  faults  are  dif- 
covered,  and  the  genuine  Tafte  of  human  nature  is 
feen.  Time  overthrows  the  iilufions  of  opinion,  but 
eftablifhes  the  decifions  of  nature. 


CRITICISM.    GENIUS.    PLEASURES  OF 
TASTE.     SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 

1  RUE  Criticism  is  the  application  of  Tafle 
and  of  good  fenfe  to  the  feveral  fine  arts.  Its  dcf^gn 
is  to  diilinguilh,  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  faulty 
in  every  performance.  From  particular  inftances  it 
afcends  to  general  principles  ;  and  gradually  forms 
rules  or  conclufions  concerning  the  feveral  kinds  oi 
Beauty  in  works  of  Genius. 

Criticifm  is  an  art,  founded  entirely  on  experience  y 
on  the  obfervation  of  fuch  beauties*  as  have  been 
found  to  pleafe  mankind  mod  generally.  For  exam- 
ple, Ariftotle's  rules  concerning  the  unity  of  action 
in  dramatic  and  epic  compofition  were  not  firft  dis- 
covered by  logical  reafoning,  and  then  applied  to  po- 
etry ;  but  they  were  deduced  from  the  practice  of 
Homer  and  Sophocles.  They  were  founded  upon  ob- 
B  a 


v>  GETS  1  U  Si 

ferving  the  fuperior  pleafure,  which  we  derive  from- 
the  relation  of  an  action,  which  is  one  and  entire^ 
beyond  what  we  receive  from  the  relation  of  fcatter- 
ed  and  unconnected  facts. 

A  fuperior  Genius  indeed  will  of  himfelf,  unin- 
£t  rutted,  compofe  in  fuch  manner,  as  is  agreeable  to 
the  moil:  important  rules  of  Criticifm ;  for,  as  thefe 
rules  are  founded  in  nature,  nature  will  frequently 
fuggeft  them  in  practice.  Homer  was  acquainted 
with  no  fyftem  of  the  art  of  poetry.  Guided  by 
Genius  alone,  he  compofed  in  verfe  a  regular  (lory, 
which  all  fucceeding  ages  have  admired.  This  how- 
ever is  no  argument  againft  the  ufefulnefs  of  Criti- 
cifm. For  fince  no  human  genius  is  perfect,  there  is 
no  writer,  who  may  not  receive  afliftance  from  critical 
obfervations  upon  the-  beauties  and  faults  of  thcfe, 
who  have  gone  before  him.  No  rules  indeed  can  fup~ 
ply  the  defects  of  genius,  or  infpire  it,  where  it  is 
wanting  ;  but  they  may  often  guide  it  into  its  proper 
channel  ;  they  may  correct  its  extravagancies,  and 
teach  it  the  mod  juft  and  proper  imitation  cf  nature. 
Critical  rules  are  intended  chiefly  to  point  out  the 
faults,  which  ought  to  be  avoided.  We  muft  be  in- 
debted to  nature  for  the  production  of  eminent 
beauties. 

Gekius  is  a  word,  which  in  common  acceptation1 
extends  much  farther,  than  to  objects  of  Talle.  It 
fignifies  that  talent  or  aptitude,  which  we  receive 
from  nature,  in  order  to  excel  in  any  one  thing  what- 
ever. A  man  is  faid  to  have  a  genius  for  mathe- 
matics as  well  as  a  genius  for  poetry  \  a  genius  for 
war.  for  politics,  or  for  any  mechanical  employment* 


PLEASURES   OF   TASTE*  J 

Genius  may  be  greatly  improved  by  art  and  ftudy  ;. 
but  'by  them  alone  it  cannot  be  acquired.  As  it  is  a 
higher  faculty  than  Tafte,  it  is  ever,  according  to  the 
common  frugality  of  nature,  more  limited  in  the 
fphere  of  its  operations.  There  are  perfons,  not  un- 
frequently  to  be  met,  who  have  an  excellent  Tafte 
in  feveral  of  the  polite  arts  ;  fuch,  as  mufic,  poetry, 
painting,  and  eloquence  ;  but  an  excellent  performer 
in  all  thefe  arts  is  very  feldom  found  ;  or  rather  is 
not  to  be  looked  for.  A  univcrfal  Genius,  or  one 
who  is  equally  and  indifferently  inclined  toward  fever- 
al different  profeflions  and  arts,  is  not  likely  to  excel 
in  any.  Although  there  may  be  fome  few  exceptions-, 
yet  in  general  it  is  true,  that,  when  the  mind  is  whol- 
ly directed  toward  fome  one  object  exclufively  of 
ethers,  there  is  the  faired  profpect  of  eminence  in 
that,  whatever  it  may  be.  Extreme  heat  can  be  pro- 
duced, only  when  the  rays  converge  to  a  fingle  point. 
Young  perfons  aie  highly  interefted  in  this  remark  ; 
lince  it  may  teach  them  to  examine  with  care,  and  to 
purfue  with  ardour  that  path,  which  nature  has  mark- 
ed out  for  their  peculiar  exertions. 

The  nature  of  Tafte,  the  nature  and  importance  of 
Criticifm,  and  the  dirtinction  between  Tafte  and  Ge- 
nius, being  thus  explained  ;  the  fources  of  the  Pleaf- 
uves  of  Tafte  fhail  next  be  confidered.  Here  a  very 
extenfive  field  is  opened  \  no  lefs,  than  all  the  PJeaf- 
nres  of  the  Imagination,  as  they  are  generally  called, 
whether  afforded  us  by  natural  objects,;  or  by  imita- 
tions and  defcriptions  of  them.  It  is  not  however 
neceffary  to  the  purpofe  of  the  prefent  work,  that  all 
thefe  be  examined  fully  5  the  pleafure,  which  we  re- 
ceive from  difcourfe  or  writing,  being  the  principal 


»  PLEASURES   OF   TASTE; 

object  of  them.  Our  defign  is  to  give  fome  opening*, 
into  the  Pleafures  of  Taiie  in  general,  and  to  infill 
more  particularly  upon  Sublimity  and  Beauty. 

We  are  far  from  having  yet  attained  any  fyftem 
concerning  this  fubje£l.  A  regular  inquiry  into  it 
was  firffc  attempted  by  Mr.  Addifon  in  his  Eilay  on 
the  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination.  By  him  thefe 
Pleafures  are  ranged  under  three  heads,  Beauty,  Gran- 
deur, and  Novelty,  His  fpeculations  on  this  fubje£t, 
if  not  remarkably  profound,  are  very  beautiful  and- 
entertaining  ;  and  he  has  the  merit  of  having  difcov- 
cred  a  track,  which  was  before  untrodden.  Since  his 
time  the  advances,  made  in  this  part  of  philofophic* 
al  criticifm,  are  not  confiderable  ;  which  is  owing 
doubtlefs  to  that  thinnefs  and  fubtilty,  which  are- 
difcovered  to  be  properties  of  all  the  feelings  of  Taile* 
It  is  difficult  to  enumerate  the  feveral  objects,  whick 
give  pleafure  to  Tafte  •,  it  is  more  difficult  to  define  all 
thofe,  which  have  been  difcovered,  and  to  range  them 
in  proper  claiTes  \  and,  when  we  would  proceed  far- 
ther, and  inveftigate  the  efficient  caufes  of  the  pleafure,. 
which  we  receive  from  fuch  objects,  here  we  find  our- 
felves  at  the  greateft  lofs.  For  example,  we  all  learn 
by  experience  that  fome  figures  of  bodies  appear  more 
beautiful  than  others  ;  on  farther  inquiry  we  difcoverr 
that  the  regularity  of  fome  figures  and  the  graceful 
variety  of  others  are  the  foundation  of  the  beauty,, 
which  we  difcern  in  them  ;  but*  when  we  ondeavour 
to  go  a  ftep  beyond  this*  and  inquire,  why  regularity 
and  variety  produce  in  our  minds  the  fenfation  of 
beauty;  i\ny  reafon,  we  can  affign,  is  extremely  im- 
perfect:. Thofe  hrft.  principles  of  internal  feniatiotl 
mature  appears  to  have  ftudioufly  congealed. 


SUBLIMITY    IN    OBJECTS  C* 

ft  is  fomc  confolation,  however,  that,  although  ther 
eiTicient  caufe  is  obfcure,  the  final  caufe  of  thofe  fenfa~ 
tions  lies  commonly  more  open  y  and  here  we  mull. 
obferve  the  ftrong  impreflion,  which  the  powers  of. 
Tafte  and  Imagination  are  calculated  to  give  us  of  the 
benevolence  of  our  Creator.  By  thefe  powers  he  hath 
widely  enlarged  the  fphere  of  the  pleafures  of  human- 
life  \  and  thofe  too  of  a  kind  the  mod  pure  and  inno- 
cent. The  neceiTary  purpofes  of  life  might  have  been 
<ini\v<.rcd,  though  our  fenfea  of  feeing  and  hearing, 
had  only  ferved  to  diftinguiih  external  objccls,  with- 
out giving  us  any  of  thofe  refined  and  delicate  fenia- 
tions  of  beauty  and  grandeur,  with  which  we  are  now 
fo  much  delighted. 

liie  pleafur.e,  which  arifes  from  fublimity  or  gran- 
deur, deferves  to  be  fully  considered  ;  becaufe  it  has  a; 
character  more  precife  and  diftintliy  marked,  than, 
any  other  of  the  pleafures  of  the  imagination,  and  be- 
caufe it  coincides  more  direclly  with  our  main  fubjecT:. 
Ihe  fimpleft  form  of  external  grandeur  is  feen  in  the 
vad  and  boundiefs  profpects,  prefented  to  us  by  na- 
ture ;  fuch  as  widely  extended  plains,  of  which  the 
eye  can  find  no  limits  ;  the  firmament  of  heaven  ;  or 
the  boundiefs  expanfe  of  the  ocean.  All  vaftnefs. 
produces  the  impreiTion  of  fubiimity.  Space,  however,, 
extended  in  length,  makes  not  fo  ftrong-  an  impreffion,. 
as  height  or  depth.  Though  a  boundiefs  plain  is  a 
grand  object.  ;  yet  a  lofty  mountain,  to  which  we  look 
up,  or  an  awful  precipice  or  tower,  whence  we  look 
down  on  objects  below,  is  ftill  more  fo.  The  excefiive 
grandeur  of  the  firmament  arifes  from  its  height,  add- 
ed to  its  boundiefs  extent ;  and  that  of  the  ocean,, 
not  from  its  extent  alone,  but  from  the  continual  mew 


I€>  SUBLIMITY   IN    OBJECTS. 

tion  and  irrefiftible  force  of  that  mafs  of  waters; 
Wherever  fpace  is  concerned,  it  is  evident,  that  am- 
plitude or  greatnefs  of  extent  in  one  dimenfion  or 
other  is  neceflary  to  grandeur.  Remove  all  bounds 
from  any  obje£r,  and  you  immediately  render  it  fub- 
lime.  Hence  infinite  fpace,  endlefs  numbers,  and  e- 
ternal  duration  fill  the  mind  with  great  ideas. 

The  moil  copious  fource  of  fublime  ideas  feems  to 
be  derived  from  the  exertion  of  great  po\Ver  and  force* 
Hence  the  grandeur  of  earthquakes  and  burning  moun- 
tains j  of  great  conflagrations ;  of  the  boifterous  ocean  5 
of  the  tempeftuous  (lorm  •,  of  thunder  and  lightning  j. 
and  of  all  the  unufual  violence  of  the  elements.  A 
ftream,  which  glides  along  gently  within  its  banks,  is 
a  beautiful  object  *,  but,  when  it  rufhes  down  with  the 
impetuofity  and  noife  of  a  torrent,  it  immediately  be- 
comes a  fublime  one.  A  race-horfe  is  viewed  with 
pleafure  $  but  it  is  the  war-horfey  "  whofe  neek  is 
u  clothed  with  thunder/'  that  conveys  grandeur  in  its 
idea.  The  engagement  of  two  powerful  armies,  as  it 
is  the  higheft  exertion  of  human  flrength,  combines 
various  fources  of  the  fublime  ;  and  has  confequently 
been  ever  confidered,  as  one  of  the  mod  flriking  and 
magnificent  fpeftacles,  which  can  be  either  prefented 
to  the  eye,  or  exhibited  to  the  imagination  in  defcrip- 
tion. 

All  ideas  of  the  folemn  and  awful  kind,  and  evert 
bordering  on  the  terrible,  tend  greatly  to  afiift  the  fub- 
lime \  fuch  as  darknefs,  folitude,.  and  filence.  The 
firmament,  when  filled  with  ftars,  fcattered  in  infinite 
numbers  and  with  fplendid  profufion,  frrikes  the  im- 
agination with  more  awful  grandeur,  than  when  we. 
tehold  it  enlightened  by  all  the  fplendour  of  the  ftm. 


SUBLIMITY   IN    OBJECTS,  II 

The  deep  found  of  a  great  bell,  or  the  (hiking  of  a 
great  clock,  is  at  any  time  grand  and  awful  ;  but  when 
heard  amid  the  filence  and  ftillnefs  of  night,  they  be- 
come doubly  (o.  Darknefs  is  very  generally  applied 
for  adding  fublimity  to  all  our  ideas  of  the  Deity. 
"  He  maketh  darknefs  his  pavilion  ;  he  dwelleth  in 
"  the  thick  cloud."     Thus  Milton — 

How  oft  amid 

Thick  clouds  and  dark  does  heaven's  all-ruling  Sire 
Choofe  to  refide,  his  glory  unobfcur'd  ; 
And  with  the  majefty  of  darknefs  round 
Circles  his  throne  * 

Obfcurity  is  favourable  to  the  fublime.  The  de- 
fcriptions  given  us  of  appearances  of  fupernatural 
beings,  carry  fome  fublimity  ;  though  the  conception, 
which  they  afford  us,  be  confufed  and  indiftin£h 
Their  fublimity  arifes  from  the  ideas,  which  they  al- 
ways Gonvey,  of  fuperior  power  and  might  connected 
with  awful  obfcurity.  No  ideas,  it  is  evident,  are  fo 
fublime,  as  thofe  derived  from  the  Supreme  Being,  the 
mod  unknown,  yet  the  greateft  of  all  objects  ;  the  in- 
finity of  whofe  nature  and  the  eternity  of  whofe  du- 
ration, added  to  the  omnipotence  of  his  power,  though 
they  furpafs  our  conceptions,  yet  exalt  them  to  the 
higheft. 

Diforder  is  alfo  very  compatible  with  grandeur  ; 
nay,  frequently  heightens  it.  Few  things,  which  are 
exaclly  regular  and  methodical,  appear  fublime.  We 
fee  the  limits  on  every  fide  ;  we  feel  ourfelves  con- 
fined 5  there  is  no  room  for  any  confiderable  exertion 
of  the  mind.    Though  exaft  proportion  of   parts  en- 


la  SUBLIMITY    IN    OBJECTS. 

ters  often  into  the  beautiful,  it  is  much  difregarded  in 
the  fublime.  A  great  mafs  of  rocks,  thrown  together 
by  the  hand  of  nature  with  wildnefs  and  confufion, 
ftrikes  the  mind  with  more  grandeur,  than  if  they  had 
been  adjufted  to  each  other  with  the  moil  accurate 
fymfnetry. 

There  yet  remains  one  clafs  of  Sublime  Obje&s  to 
be  mentioned,  which  may  be  termed  the  Moral  or 
Sentimental  Sublime,  arifing  from  certain  exertions 
of  the  mind  ;  from  certain  affe£tions  and  actions  of 
our  fellow  creatures.  Thefe  will  be  found  to  be 
chiefly  of  that  clafs,  which  comes  under  the  name  of 
Magnanimity  or  Heroifm  ;  and  they  produce  an  ef- 
fect very  fimilar  to  what  is  produced  by  a  view  of 
grand  objefls  in  nature,  filling  the  mind  with  admi- 
ration, and  raifing  it  above  itfelf.  Wherever  in  fome 
critical  and  dangerous  fituation  we  behold  a  man  un- 
commonly intrepid,  and  refting  folely  upon  himfelf  ; 
fuperior  to  paflion  and  to  fear  ;  animated  by  fomc 
great  principle  to  contempt  of  popular  opinion,  of 
felfifh  intereft,  of  dangers,  or  of  death  ;  we  are  there 
iiruck  with  a  fenfe  of  the  fublime.  Thus  Porus, 
when  taken  by  Alexander  after  a  gallant  defence,  be- 
ing afked,  in  what  manner  he  would  be  treated  ;  an- 
fwered,  "  Like  a  King  ;"  and  Csefar  chiding  the  pilot, 
who  was  afraid  to  fet  out  with  him  in  a  ftorm, 
*c  Quid  times  ?  Csefarem  vehis,"  are  good  inflances 
of  the  Sentimental  Sublime. 

The  fublime  in  natural  and  in  moral  objects  is  pre- 
fented  to  us  in  one  view,  and  compared  together,  in 
the  following  beautiful  paflage  of  Akenfide's  Pleafures 
of  the  Imagination* 


SUBLIMITY    IN   OBJECTS.  1 3 

3Look  then  abroad  through  nature  to  the  range 
Of  planets,  funs,  and  adamantine  fpheres, 
Wheeling,  unfhaken,  thro'  the  void  immenfe; 
And  fpeak,  O  Man  !  does  this  capacious  fcene, 
With  half  that  kindling  majefty,  dilate 
Thy  ftrong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rofe 
Refulgent  from  the  ftroke  of  Casfar's  fate 
Amid  the  crowds  of  patriots  ;   and  his  arm 
Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 
When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  call'd  aloud 
On  Tully's  name,  and  fhook  his  crimfon  fteel, 
And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  ! 
For  lo  !  the  tyrant  proftrate  on  the  duft; 
And  Rome  again  is  free. 

It  has  been  imagined  by  an  ingenious  Author,  that 
terror  is  the  fource   of  the  fublime  •,  and  that  no  ob- 
jects have  this  character,  but  fuch  as  produce  impref- 
fions  of  pain  and  danger.     Many  terrible  objecls  are 
indeed  highly  fublime  ;  nor  does  grandeur  refufe  alli- 
ance with  the  idea  of  danger.     But  the  fublime  does 
not   confifl  wholly  in  modes  of  danger  and  pain.     In 
many  grand  objects  there  is  not  the  lead  coincidence 
with  terror  ;  as  in  the  magnificent  profpect  of  widely 
extended  plains,   and  of  the   (tarry  firmament ;  or  in 
the  moral  difpofitions  and  fentiments,  which  we  con- 
template with  high  admiration.      In  many  painful  and 
terrible  objects  alfo,   it  is  evident,   there  is  no  fort  of 
grandeur.     The  amputation  of  a  limb,  or  the  bite  of 
a  fnake,  is  in  the  higheft  degree  terrible  ;  but    they 
are   deftitute  of  all  claim  whatever  to  fublimity.      Lt 
feems  j.uft  to  allow  that  mighty  force  or  power,  whether 
attended  by  terror  or  not,   whether  employed  in  pro- 
tecting or  alarming  us,  has  a  better 'title,   than  any 
C 


14  SUBLIMITY   IN   WRITING. 

thing  yet  mentioned,"  to  be  the  fundamental  quality 
of  tfie  fublime.  There  appears  to  be  no  fublime  ob- 
ject, into  the  idea  of  which  ftrength  and  force  either 
enter  not  directly,  or  are  not  at  lead  intimately  aflb- 
ciated  by  conducting  our  thoughts  to  fome  aftonifhing 
power,  as  concerned  in  the  production  of  the  objsct. 


SUBLIMITY   IN  WRITING. 

1  HE  foundation  of  the  Sublime  inCompofition 
mud  always  be  laid  in  the  nature  of  the  object  de- 
fcribed.  Unlefs  it  be  fuch  an  object:,  as,  if  prefented 
to  our  fight,  if  exhibited  to  us  in  reality,  would  excite 
ideas  of  that  elevating,  that  awful,  and  magnificent 
kind,  which  we  call  Sublime  ;  the  defcription,  how- 
ever finely  drawn,  is  not  entitled  to  be  placed  under 
this  clafs.  This  excludes  all  objects,  which  are  merely 
beautiful,  gay  or  elegant.  Befides,  the  object  mud  not 
only  in  itfelf  be  fublime,  but  it  mud  be  placed  before 
us  in  fuch  a  light,  as  is  bed  calculated  to  give  us  a 
clear  and  full  impreflion  of  it  ;  it  mud  be  defcribed 
with  drength,  concifenefs,  and  fimplicity.  This  de- 
pends chiefly  upon  the  lively  impreflion,  which  the 
poet  or  orator  has  of  the  object,  which  he  exhibits  ; 
and  upon  his  being  deeply  affected  and  animated  by 
the  fublime  idea,  which  he  would  convey.  If  his  own 
feeling  be  languid,  he  can  never  infpire  his  reader 
with  any  drong  emotion.  Indances,  which  on  this 
fubject  are  extremely  neceflary,  will  clearly  (how  the 
importance  of  all  thefe  requifites. 


SUBLIMITY   IN   WRITING.  *S 

It  is  chiefly  among  ancient- authors,  that  we  are  to 
look  for  the  mod  ftriking  inftances  of  the  fublime. 
The  early  ages  of  the  world  and  the  uncultivated  (late 
of  fociety  were  peculiarly  favourable  to  the  emotions 
of  fublimity.  The  genius  of  men  was  then  very  prone 
to  admiration  and  aftonifnment.  Meeting  continually 
new  and  ftrange  objects,  their  imagination  was  kept 
glowing,  and  their  paffions  were  often  raifed  to  the 
utmofl.  They  thought  and  exprcfled  themfelves  bold- 
ly without  reftraint.  In  the  progrefs  of  fociety  the 
genius  and  manners  of  men  have  undergone  a  change 
more  favourable  to  accuracy,  than  to  ftrength  or  fub- 
limity. , 

Of  all  writings,  ancient  or  modern,  the  facred 
fcriptures  afford  the  moil  ftriking  inftances  of  the 
fublime.  In  them  the  defcriptions  of  the  Supreme 
Being  are  wonderfully  noble,  both  from  the  grandeur 
of  the  object,  and  the  manner  of  reprefenting  it. 
What  an  aflemblage  of  awful  and  fublime  ideas  is  pre- 
fented  to  us  in  that  paffage  of  the  eighteenth  Pfalm, 
where  an  appearance  of  the  Almighty  is  defcribed  ! 
"  In  my  diftrefs  I  called  upon  the  Lord  •,  he  heard  my 
u  voice  out  of  his  temple,  and  my  cry  came  before 
?  him.  Then  the  earth  fhook  and  trembled  ;  the 
<c  foundations  of  the  hills  were  moved  ;  becaufe  he 
u  was  wroth.  He  bowed  the  heavens,  and  came 
u  down,  and  darknefs  was  under  his  feet  ;  and  he 
"  did  ride  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly  ;  yea,  he  did 
"  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.  He  made  dark- 
"  nefs  his  fecret  place  ;  his  pavilion  round  about  him 
u  were  dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of  the  fky." 
The  circumftances  of  darknefs  and  terror  are  here  ap- 


1 6  SUBLIMITY    IN   WRITING. 

plied  with  propriety  and  fuccefs  for  heightening  the 
fublime. 

The  celebrated  inftance,  given  by  Longinus,  from 
Mofes,  "  God  faid,  Let  there  be  light  ;  and  there  was 
"  light,"  belongs  to  the  true  fublime  5  and  its  fublim- 
ity  ariies  from  the  flrong  conception,  it  conveys,  of 
ail  effort  of  power  producing  itseffecl:  with  the  utmoft 
fpeed  and  facility.  A  fimilar  thought  is  magnificently 
expanded  in  the  following  paffage  of  Ifaiah  :  (chap, 
xxiv.  24,  27,  28)  "  Thus  faith  the  Lord,  thy  Redeem- 
"  er,  and  he  that  formed  thee  from  the  womb  ;  I 
"  am  the  Lord,  that  maketh  all  things  ;  that  ftretch- 
"  eth  forth  the  heavens  alone  ;  that  fpreadeth  abroad 
"  the  earth  by  myfelf  j  that  faith  to  the  deep,  be 
"  dry,  and'  I  will  dry  up  thy  rivers  ;  that  faith  of 
"  Cyrus,  he  is  my  fhepherd,  and  fhall  perform  all 
<f  my  pleafure  ;  even  faying  to  Jerufalem,  thou  (halt 
"  be  built  ;  and  to  the  temple,  thy  foundation  (hall 
"  be  laid." 

Homer  has  in  all  ages  been  univerfally  admired  for 
fublimity  ;  and  he  is  indebted  for  much  of  his  gran- 
deur to  that  native  and  unaffected  fimplicity,  which 
chara£terifes  his  manner.  His  defcriptions  of  con- 
flicting armies  ;  the  fpirit,  the  fire,  the  rapidity,  which 
he  throws  into  his  battles,  prefent  to  every  reader  of 
the  Iliad  frequent  inftances  of  fublime  writing.  The 
majefty  of  his  warlike  fcenes  is  often  heightened  in 
a  high  degree  by  the  introduction  of  the  gods.  In 
the  twentieth  book,  where  all  the  gods  take  part  irt 
the  engagement,  according  as  they  feverally  favour 
either  the  Grecians  or  the  Trojans,  the  poet  appears 
-to  put  forth  one  of  his  higheft  efforts,  and  the  defcrip- 
tion  rifes  into  the  mod  awful  magnificence.     All  na* 


SUBLIMITY   IN   WRITING.  fj 

mre  appears  in  commotion.  Jupiter  thunders  in  the 
heavens  ;  Neptune  ftrikes  the  earth  with  his  trident; 
the  (hips,  the  city,  and  the  mountains  fhake  j  the 
earth  trembles  to  its  centre  ;  Pluto  ftarts  from  his 
throne,  fearing,  left  the  fecrets  of  the  infernal  regions 
fliould  be  laid  open  to  the  view  of  mortals.  We  fhali 
tranfcribe  Mr.  Pope's  tranflation  of  this  paffage  ; 
which,  though  inferior  to  the  original,  is  highly  ani- 
mated and  fublime. 

But,  when  the  powers  descending  fwell'd  the  fight, 

Then  tumult  rofe,  fierce  rage,  and  pale  affright. 

Now  thro'  the  trembling  fhores  Minerva  calls, 

And  now  fhe  thunders  from  the  Grecian  walls. 

Mars,  hov'ring  o'er  his  Troy,  his  terror  fhrouda 

In  gloomy  tempefb,  and  a  night  of  clouds  ; 

Now  thro'  each  Trojan  heart  he  fury  pours 

With  voice  divine  from  Ilion's  topmoft  towers  ; 

Above  the  Sire  of  gods  his  thunder  rolls, 

And  peals  on  peals  redoubled  rend  the  poles. 

Beneath,  ftern  Neptune  fliakes  the  folid  ground, 

The  forefts  wave,  the  mountains  nod  around  ; 

Thro'  all  her  fummits  tremble  Ida's  woods, 

And  from  their  fources  boil  her  hundred  floods : 

Troy's  turrets  totter  on  the  rocking  plain, 

And  the  tofs'd  navies  beat  the  heaving  main. 

Deep  in  the  difmal  region  of  the  dead 

The  infernal  monarch  rear'd  his  horrid  head, 

Leap't  from  his  throne,  left  Neptune's  arm  fliould  lay 

His  dark  dominions  open  to  the  day, 

And  pour  in  light  on  Pluto's  drear  abodes, 

Abhorr'd  by  men,  and  dreadful  e'en  to  god3. 

Such  wars  th'  immortals  wage ;  fuch  horrors  rend 

The  world's  vaft  concave,  when  the  gods  contend. 

Concifenefs  and  fimplicity  will  ever  be  found  effen- 
tial  to  fublime  writing.     Simplicity  is  properly  oppof- 
C    2 


I  8  SUBLIMITY  IN   WRITING. 

ed  to  ftudied  and  profufe  ornament ;  and  concifenefs 
to  fuperfluous  expreffion.  It  will  eafily  appear,  why  a 
defe£l  either  in  concifenefs  or  fimplicity  is  peculiarly* 
hurtful  to  the  fublime.  The  emotion  excited  in  the: 
mind  by  fome  great  or  noble  obje£t,  raifes  it  consider- 
ably above  its  common  pitch.  A  fpecies  of  enthufi- 
afm  is  produced,  extremely  pleafing,  while  it  lads  ; 
but  the  mind  is  tending  every  moment  to  link  into  its 
ordinary  date.  When  an  author  has  brought  us,  or 
is  endeavouring  to  bring  us  into  this  ftate,  if  he  mul- 
tiply words  unnecefJarily  j  if  he  deck  the  fublime  ob- 
ject on  all  fides  with  glittering  ornaments ;,  nay,  if  he 
throw  in  any  one  decoration,  which  falls  in  the  leafi: 
below  the  principal  image  ;  that  moment  he  changes 
the  key  ;  he  relaxes  the  tendon  of  the  mind  ;  ther 
ftrength  of  the  feeling  is  emafculated  ;  the  beautiful 
may  remain  •,  but  the  fublime  is  extinguifhed.  Ho- 
mer's defcription  of  the  nod  of  Jupiter,  as  making  the 
heavens,  has  been  admired  in  all  ages,  as  wonderfully 
fublime.  Literally  tranflated,  it  runs  thus  :  "  He 
"  fpoke,  and  bending  his  fable  brows  gave  the  awfu4 
u  nod  ;  while  he  (hook  the  celeitial  locks  of  his  im- 
u  mortal  head,  all  Olympus  was  fhaken."  Mr.  Pope 
tranflates  it  thus  : 

He  fpoke ;  and   awful  bends  his  fable  brows, 

Shakes  his  ambrofial.  curls,  and   gives  the  nod. 

The  ftamp  of  fate,  and  fanctien  of  a  God  ;  « 

High  heaven  with  trembling  the  dread  fignal  took, 

And  all  Olympus  to  its  centre  fhook. 

The  image  is  expanded,  and  attempted  to  be  beau- 
tified •,  but  in  reality  it  is  weakened.  The  third  line— 
"  The  ftamp  of  fate,  and  fanttion  of  a  God,"  is  en- 


SUBLIMITY   IN    WRITING.  f0 

firely  expletive,  and  introduced  only  to  fill  up  the 
rhyme  ;  for  it  interrupts  the  defcription,  and  clogs  the 
image.  For  the  fame  reafon  Jupiter  is  reprefented, 
as  (halting  his  locks,  before  he  gives  the  nod  ;  "  Shakes 
"  his  ambrofial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod  &"  which  is- 
trifling  and  inllgnificant  ;  whereas  in  the  original  the 
ihaking  of  his  hair  is  the  coniequence  of  his  nod,  and 
^>  a  happy  piflurefque  circumftance  in  the  de- 
fcription. 

The  boldnefs,  freedom,  and  variety  of  our  blank 
verfe  are  infinitely  more  propitious  than  rhyme,  to 
all  kinds  of  fublime  poetry.  The  fulled  proof  of  this 
is  afforded  by  Milton  \  an  author,  whofe  genius  led 
him  peculiarly  to  the  fublime.  The  firft  and  fecond 
books  of  Paradife  Loft  are  continued  examples  of  it. 
Take  for  inilance  the  following  noted  defcription  of 
Satan,  after  his  fall,  appearing  at  the  head  of  his  in- 
fernal hofts  : 


-He,  above  the  reft, 


In  fliape  and  gefture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood,  like  a  tower  ;  his  form  had  not  yet  loll 
All  her  original  brightnefs,  nor  appeared 
I.efs  than  archangel  ruin'd,  and  the  excefs 
Of  glory  obfeur'd  :   As  when  the  fun,  new  rifen,, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  mifty  air, 
Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or,  from  behind  the  m«cn, 
In  dim  eclipfe,  difaftrous  twilight  ftieds 
4^n  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darken'd  fo,  yet  flione 
Above  them  all  th'  archangel, 

Here  various  fources  of  the  fublime  are  joined  to- 
j  r  ;  the  principal  objefl  fupcrlatively  great  ;  a 
high,  fuperior  nature,  fallen  indeed,  but  raifmg  itfeif 
againft  diflrefs  >  the  grandeur  of  the  principal  objefi 


20  SUBLIMITY   IN   WRITING. 

heightened  by  connecting  it  with  fo  noble  an  idea,  zz 
that  of  the  fun  fuftering  an  eclipfe  ;  this  picture, 
(haded  with  all  thofe  images  of  change  and  trouble, 
of  darknefs  and  terror,  which  coincide  fo  exquifitely 
with  the  fublime  emotion  ;  and  the  whole  exprefTed 
in  a  flyle  and  verification  eafy,  natural,  and  fimple, 
but  magnificent. 

Befide  fimplicity  and  concifenefs,  ftrength  is  effen~ 
tially  necelfary  to  fublime  writing.  Strength  of  de- 
fcription  proceeds  in  a  great  meafure  from  concifenefs  ; 
but  it  implies  fomething  more,  namely,  a  judicious 
choice  of  circum fiances  in  the  defcription  ;  fuch  as 
will  exhibit  the  object  in  its  full  and  mod  ftriking 
point  of  view.  For  every  object  has  feveral  faces,  by 
which  it  may  be  prefented  to  us,  according  to  the 
circumftances  with  which  we '  furround  it  *,  and  it 
will  appear  fuperlatively  fublime,  or  not,  in  pro- 
portion as  thefe  circumftances  are  happily  chofeii, 
and  of  a  fublime  kind.  In  this,  the  great  art  of  the 
writer  confifts  ;  and  indeed  the  principal  difficulty  of* 
fublime  defcription.  If  the  defcription  be  too  general, 
and  divefted  of  circumftances;  the  objeci  is  fhewn 
in  a  faint  light,  and  makes  a  feeble  impreffion,  or  no 
impreffion,  on  the  reader.  At  the  time,  if  any  trivial 
or  improper  circumftances  be  mingled,  the  whole  is 
degraded. 

The  nature  of  that  emotion,  which  is  aimed  at  by 
fublime  defcription,  admits  no  mediocrity,  and  cannot 
fubfift  in  a  middle  ftate  ;  but  muft  either  highly  trans- 
port us  •,  or,  if  unfuccefsful  in  the  execution,  leave  us 
exceedingly  difgufted.  We  attempt  to  rife  with  the 
writer ;  the  imagination  is  awakened,  and  put  upon 
the  ftretch  \  but  it  ought  to  be  fupported  \  and,  if  in 


SUBLIMITY  IN    WRITIKGT.  2T 

flie  midft  of  its  effort  it  be  dcferted  unexpectedly,  it 
falls  with  a  painful  fhock.  When  Milton  in  his  bat- 
tle of  the  angels  defcribes  them,  as  tearing  up  moun- 
tains, and  throwing  them  at  one  another  \  there  are  in 
his  defcription,  as  Mr.  Addifonhas  remarked,  no  cir- 
cumftances,  but  what  are  truly  fublime  : 

From  their  foundations  loos'ning  to  and  fro, 
They  pluck'd  the  feated  hills  with  all  their  load, 
Rocks,  waters,  woods  ;  and  by  the  fliaggy  tops 
Uplifting,  bore  them  in  their  hands.- 

This  idea  of  the  giants  throwing  the  mountains, 
which  is  in  itfelf  fo  grand,  Claudian  renders  burlefque 
and  ridiculous  by  the  fingle  circumftance  of  one  of 
his  giants  with  the  mountain  Ida  upon  his  mould- 
ers, and  a  river,  which  flowed  from  the  mountain,, 
running  down  the  giant's  back,  as  he  held  it  up  in  that 
poflure.  Virgil,  in  his  defcription  of  mount  iEtna,  is 
guilty  of  a  flight  inaccuracy  of  this  kind.  After  fev- 
eral  magnificent  images,  the  poet  concludes  with  per- 
fonifying  the  mountain  under  this  figure, 

"  Erutflans  vifcera  cum  gemitu," — 


u  belching  up  its  bowels  with  a  groan  j*  which,  by- 
making  the  mountain  refemble  a  fick  or  drunken  per- 
fon,  degrades  the  majefty  of  the  defcription.  The 
debating  efFe£l  of  this  idea  will  appear  in  a  flronger 
light,  from  obferving  what  figure  it  makes  in  a  poem 
of  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  ;  who,  through  an  extrava- 
gant perverfity  of  tafte,  felecled  it  for  the  principal 
circumftance  in  his  defcription  ;  and  thereby,  as  Dr. 
Arburthnot  humoroufly  obferves,  reprefeuted  tli£ 
mountain  as  in  a  fit  of  the  cholic* 


22  SUBLIMITY   IN   WRITING. 

iEtna  and  all  the  burning  mountains  find 
Their  kindled  ftores  with  inbred  ftorms  of  wind 
Blown  up  to  rage,  and  roaring  out  complain, 
As  torn  with  inward  gripes  and  torturing  pain  ; 
Labouring,  they  call:  their  dreadful  vomit  round, 
And  with  their  melted  bowels  fpread  the  ground. 

Such  inftances  fliow  how  much  the  fublime  de- 
pends upon  a  proper  fele&ion  of  circumftances  \  and 
with  how  great  care  every  circumstance  mud  be  avoid- 
ed, which,  by  approaching  in  the  fmalleft  degree  to 
the  mean,  or  even  to  the  gay  or  trifling,  changes  the 
tone  of  the  emotion. 

What  is  commonly  called  the  fublime  ftyle,  is  for 
the  moft  part  a  very  bad  one,  and  has  no  relation 
whatever  to  the^  true  Sublime.  Writers  are  apt  to  im- 
agine that  fplendid  words,  accumulated  epithets,  and  a 
certain  fweiling  kind  of  expreffion,  by  rifmg  above 
what  is  cuftomary  or  vulgar,  conftitute  the  fublime  j 
yet  nothing  is  in  reality  more  falfe.  In  genuine  in- 
ftances  of  fublime  writing  nothing  of  this  kind  appears- 
H  God  faid,  Let  there  be  light  ;  and  there  was  light." 
This  is  ftriking  and  fublime  j  but  put  it  into  what  is 
commonly  called  the  fublime  ftyle  :  ""The  Sovereign 
"  Arbiter  of  nature,  by  the  potent  energy  of  a  fingle 
"  word,  commanded,  the  light  to  exift  j*  and,  as  Boi- 
leau  juftly  obferved,  the  ftyle  is  indeed  raifed,  but  the 
thought  is  degraded.  In  general  it  may  be  obferved, 
that  the  fublime  lies  in  the  thought,  not  in  the  ex- 
preffion 5  and,  when  the  thought  is  really  noble,  it 
will  generally  clothe  itfelf  in  a  native  majefty  of  lan- 
guage. 

The  faults,  oppofite  to  the  Sublime,  are  principally 
two,  the  Frigid  and  the  Bombaft.     The  Frigid  confift* 


BEAUTY   AND  OTHER  PLEASURES  GF  TASTE.        23 

in  degrading  an  object  or  fentiment,  which  is  fublime 
in  itfelf,  by  a  mean  conception  of  it  ;  or  by  a  weak, 
low,  or  puerile  defcription  of  it.  This  betrays  entire 
abfence,  or  at  lead  extreme  poverty  of  genius.  The 
Bombaft  lies  in  forcing  a  common  or  trivial  objeG  out 
of  its  rank,  and  in  labouring  to  raife  it  into  the  fub- 
lime ;  or  in  attempting  to  exalt  a  fublime  objecT  be- 
yond all  natural  bounds. 


BEAUTY    AND    OTHER   PLEASURES 
OF    TASTE. 

BEAUTY  next  to  Sublimity  affords  the  higheft 
pleafure  to  the  imagination.  The  emotion,  which  it 
raifes,  is  eafily  diftinguifhed  from  that  of  fublimity. 
It  is  of  a  calmer  kind  ;  more  gentle  and  foothing  ; 
does  not  elevate  the  mind  fo  much,  but  produces  a 
pleafing  ferenity.  Sublimity  excites  a  feeling,  too 
violent  to  be  lading  ;  the  pleafure,  proceeding  from 
Beauty,  admits  longer  duration.  It  extends  alfo  to  a 
much  greater  variety  of  objects  than  fublimity  ;  to 
a  variety  indeed  fo  great,  that  the  fenfations  which 
beautiful  objects  excite,  differ  exceedingly,  not  in  de- 
gree only,  but  alfo  in  kind,  from  each  other.  Hence 
no  word  is  ufed  in  a  'more  undetermined  fignification 
than  Beauty.  It  is  applied  to  almoft  every  external 
object,  which  pleafes  the  eye  or  the  ear  j  to  many  of 
the  graces  of  writing  ;  to  feveral  difpofitions  of  the 
mind  ;  nay,  to  fome  objects  of  abftracl:  fcience.  We 
fpeak  frequently  of  a  beautiful  tree    or  flower  j  a 


24  BEAUTY    AND   OTHER 

beautiful  poem  ;  a  beautiful  character  ;  and  a  beau- 
tiful theorem  in  mathematics. 

Colour  feems  to  afford  the  fimplefl:  inftance  of  Beau- 
ty. AfTociation  of  ideas,  it  is  probable,  has  fome  in- 
fluence on  the  pleafure,  which  we  receive  from  col- 
ours. Green,  for  example,  may  appear  more  beautiful 
from  being  connected  in  our  ideas  with  rural  fcenes 
and  profpedls  ;  white  with  innocence  ;  blue  with  the 
ferenity  of  the  fky.  Independently  of  aflbciations  of 
this  fort,  all  that  we  can  farther  obferve  refpefting 
colours  is,  that  thofe,  chofen  for  Beauty,  are  common- 
ly delicate,  rather  than  glaring.  Such  are  the  feathers 
of  feveral  kinds  of  birds,  the  leaves  of  flowers,  and 
the  fine  variation  of  colours,  mown  by  the  iky  at  the 
rifmg  and  fetting  of  the  fun. 

Figure  opens  to  us  forms  of  Beauty  more  complex 
and  diverfified.  Regularity  firft  offers  itfelf  as  a 
fource  of  Beauty.  By  a  regular  figure  is  meant  one, 
which  we  perceive  to  be  formed  according  to  fome 
certain  rule,  and  not  left  arbitrary  or  loofe  in  the  con- 
struction of  its  parts.  Thus  a  circle,  a  fquare,  a  tri- 
angle, or  a  hexagon,  gives  pleafure  to  the  eye  by  its 
regularity,  as  a  beautiful  figure  ;  yet  a  certain  graceful 
variety  is  found  to  be  a  much  more  powerful  principle 
<?f  Beauty.  Regularity  feems  to  appear  beautiful  to 
us  chiefly,  if  not  entirely,  on  account  of  its  fuggefting 
the  ideas  of  fitnefs*  propriety,  and  ufe,  which  have 
always  a  more  intimate  connexion  with  orderly  and 
proportioned  forms,  than  with  thofe  which  appear 
not  conftru&ed  according  to  any  certain  rule.  Na- 
ture, who  is  the  moft  graceful  artift,  hath,  in  all  her 
ornamental  works,  purfued  variety  with  an  apparent 
neglect  of  regularity.    Cabinets,  doors,  and  windows 


PLEASURES  OF   TASTE.  2$ 

arc  made  after  a  regular  form,  in  cubes  and  parallelo- 
grams, with  exacT:  proportion  of  parts  ;  and  thus 
formed,  they  pleafe  the  eye  ;  for  this  juft  reafon,  that, 
being  works  of  ufe,  they  are  by  fuch  'figures  better 
adapted  to  the  ends  for  which  they  were  defigned* 
But  plants,  flowers,  and  leaves  are  full  of  variety  and 
diverfity.  A  ftraight  canal  is  an  infipid  figure,  when 
compared  with  the  meanders  of  a  river.  Cones  and 
pyramids  have  their  degree  of  beauty  ;  but  trees, 
growing  in  their  natural  wildnefs,  have  infinitely 
more  beauty,  than  when  trimmed  into  pyramids  and 
cones.  The  apartments  of  a  houfe  muft  be  difpofed 
with  regularity  for  the  convenience  of  its  inhabitants  j 
but  a  garden,  which  is  intended  merely  for  beauty, 
would  be  extremely  difgufting,  if  it  had  as  much 
uniformity  and  order  as  a  dwelling- houfe. 

Motion  affords  another  fource  of  Beauty,  diftincT; 
from  figure.  Motion  of  itfelf  is  pleafing  ;  and  bod- 
ies in  motion  are,  "  ceteris  paribus,"  univerfally  pre- 
ferred to  thofe  at  reft.  Only  gentle  motion  however 
belongs  to  the  Beautiful  j  for,  when  it  is  fwift,  or  very 
powerful,  fuch  as  that  of  a  torrent,  it  partakes  of 
the  fublime.  The  motion  of  a  bird  gliding  through 
the  air  is  exquifitely  beautiful ;  but  the  fwiftnefs 
with  which  lightning  darts  through  the  iky,  is  mag- 
nificent and  aftonifhing.  Here  it  is  neceffary  to  ob- 
ferve,  that  the  fenfations  of  fublime  and  beautiful  are 
not  always  diftinguifhed  by  very  difiant  boundaries  ; 
but  are  capable  in  many  inftances  of  approaching  to- 
ward each  other.  Thus  a  gently  running  ftream  13 
one  of  the  moll  beautiful  objedls  in  nature  j  but,  as  it 
fwells  gradually  into  a  great  river,  the  beautiful  by 


26  BEAUTY   AND   OTHER 

degrees  is  loft  in  the  fublime.  A  young  tree  is  a 
beautiful  object  ;  a  fpreading  ancient  oak  is  a  venera- 
ble and  fublime  one.  To  return,  however,  to  the 
beauty  of  motion,  it  will  be  found  to  hold  very  gener- 
ally, that  motion  in  a  ftraight  line  is  not  fo  beautiful 
as  in  a  waving  direction  ;  and  motioa  upward  is  com- 
monly more  pleafing  than  motion  downward.  The 
cafy,  curling  motion  of  flame  and  fmoke  is  an  object 
Angularly  agreeable.  Hogarth  obferves  very  inge- 
nioufly,  that  all  the  common  and  necelTary  motions  for 
the  bufinefs  of  life  are  performed  in  ftraight  or  plain 
lines  -9  but  that  all  the  graceful  and  ornamental 
movements  are  made  in  curve  lines  5  an  obfervation 
worthy  of  the  attention  of  thofe  who  ftudy  the  grace 
of  gefture  and  action. 

Colour,  figure,  and  motion,  though  feparate  princi- 
ples of  Beauty,  yet  in  many  beautiful  objects  meet  to- 
gether, and  thereby  render  the  beauty  greater  and 
more  complex.  Thus  in  flowers,  trees,  and  animals 
we  are  entertained  at  once  with  the  delicacy  of  the 
colour,  with  the  gracefulnefs  of  the  figure,  and  fome- 
times  alfo  with  the  motion  of  the  object.  The  moii 
complete  aflemblage  of  beautiful  objects,  which  can 
be  found,  is  reprefented  by  a  rkh  natural  landfcape, 
where  there  is  a  fuflicient  variety  of  objedls  •,  fields  in 
verdure,  fcattered  trees  and  flowers,  running  water, 
and  animals  grazing.  If  to  thefe  be  added  fome  of  the 
productions  of  art,  fuitable  to  fuch  a  fcene  ;  as  a  bridge 
with  arches  over  a  river,  fmoke  rifing  from  cottages 
in  the  midft  of  trees,  and  a  diftant  view  of  a  fine 
building  feen  by  the  rifing  fun  ;  we  then  enjoy  in  the 
higheft  perfection  that  gay,  cheerful,  and  placid  fenfa- 
tion,  which  charadierifes  Beauty. 


PLEASURES   OF   TASTE.  2? 

The  beauty  of  the  human  countenance  is  more 
complex  than  any  we  have  yet  examined.  It  com- 
prehends the  Beauty  of  colour,  arifmg  from  the  delicate 
fbades  of  the  complexion ;  and  the  Beauty  of  figure, 
arifing  from  the  lines,  which  conltitute  different  fea- 
tures of  the  face.  But  the  principal  Beauty  of  the 
countenance  depends  upon  a  myfterious  expreflion, 
which  it  conveys  of  the  qualities  of  the  mind  }  of 
good  fenfe,  or  good  humour  j  of  candour,  benevolence, 
fenfibility,  or  other  amiable  difpofitiona.  It  may  be 
obferved,  that  there  are  certain  qualities  of  the  mind, 
which,  whether  expreffed  in  the  countenance,  or  by- 
words, or  by  aftions,  always  raife  in  us  a  feeling  fmii- 
lar  to  that  of  Beauty.  There  are  two  great  clalTes  of 
moral  qualities  ;  one  is  of  the  high  and  the  great  vir- 
tues, which  require  extraordinary  efforts,  and  is  found- 
ed on  dangers  and  fufferings  ;  as3  heroifm,  magnanim- 
ity, contempt  of  pleafures,  and  contempt  of  death. 
Thefe  produce  in  the  fpectator  an  emotion  of  fublimity 
and  grandeur.  The  other  clafs  is  chiefly  of  the  focial 
virtues  •,  and  fuch  as  are  of  a  fofter  and  gentler  kind  5 
as,  compaflion,  mildnefs,  and  generouty.  Thefe  ex- 
cite in  the  beholder  a  fenfation  of  plea fu re,  fo  nearly 
allied  to  that  excited  by  beautiful  external  objec7t?5 
that,  though  of  a  more  exalted  nature,  it  may  with 
propriety  be  claffed  under  the  fame  head. 

Beauty  of  writing  in  its  more  definite  fenfe  charac- 
terifes  a  particular  manner  ;  fignifying  a  certain  grace 
and  amenity  in  the  turn  either  of  ftyle  or  fentiment, 
by  which  fome  authors  are  particularly  diflinguifhed. 
In  this  fenfe  it  denotes  a  manner  neither  remarkably 
fublime,  nor  vehemently  paflionate,  nor  uncommonly 
fparkling  *,  but  fuch  as  excites  in  the  reader  an  emo- 


%t  SEAXJTT    AN©  OTH1K 

tion  of  the  placid  kind,  refembling  that  which  is  raif* 
ed  by  contemplation  of  beautiful  objects  in  nature  |, 
which  neither  lifts  the  mind  very  high,  nor  agitates 
it  to  excefs  \  but  fpreads  over  the  imagination  a  pleat- 
ing ferenity.  Addifon  is  a  writer  of  this  chara&er, 
and  one  of  the  moll  proper  examples  of  it,  Fenelon, 
the  author  of  Telemachu$,  is  another  example.  Vir- 
gil alfo,  though  very  capable  of  riling  occafionally  into 
the  fubliine,  yet  generally  is  diiHnguifhed  by  the  char- 
acter of  beauty  and  grace,  rather  than  of  fublimify. 
Among  orators,  Cicero  has  more  of  the  beautiful 
than  Demofthenes,  whofe  genius  led  him  wholly  to- 
ward vehemence  and  ftrength, 

So  much  it  is  neceffary  to  have  faid  upon  the  fub» 
je£l  of  Beauty  ;  fince  next  to  fublimity  it  is  the  mod 
copious  fource  of  the  Pleafures  of  Tafte.  But  obje&s 
delight  the  imagination  not  only  by  appearing  under 
the  forms  of  fublime  or  beautiful  j  they  likewife  derive 
their  power  of  giving  it  pleafure  from  feveral  othefr 
principles. 

Novelty,  for  example,  has  been  mentioned  by  Addi- 
fon, and  by  every  writer  on  this  fubjecT:.  An  objedfc 
which  has  no  other  merit  than  that  of  being  new, 
by  this  quality  alone  raifes  in  the  mind  a  vivid  and 
an  agreeable  emotion.  Hence  that  pallion  of  curiofi- 
ty,  which  prevails  fo  generally  in  mankind.  Objedls  . 
and  ideas,  which  have  been  long  familiar,  make  too 
faint  an  impreflion,  tp  give  an  agreeable  exercife  to 
our  faculties.  New  and  ftrange  objects  roufe  the 
mind  from  its  dormant  (late,  by  giving  it  a  fudden 
and  pleafing  impulfe.  Hence  in  a  great  meafure 
the  entertainment  we  receive  from  fiction  and  ro- 
mance.   The  emotion,  raifed  by  Novelty,   is  of  w. 


*  PLEASURES   OF    TASTE.  2<) 

fnote  lively  and  awakening  nature,  than  that  produc- 
ed by  Beauty  ;  but  much  (horter  in  its  duration. 
For,  if  the  object  have  in  itfelf  no  charms  to  hold  our 
attention,  the  glofs,  fpread  over  it  by  Novelty,  foon 
wears  off. 

Imitation  is  another  fource  of  pleafure  to  Tafte. 
This  gives  rife  to  what  Addifon  terms  the  Secondary 
Pleafures  of  Imagination,  which  form  a  very  exten- 
five  clafs.  For  all  imitation  affords  fome  Pleafure  to 
the  mind  ;  not  only  the  imitation  of  beautiful  or  fub- 
lime  objects,  by  recalling  the  original  ideas  of  beauty 
or  grandeur,  which  fuch  objects  themfelves  exhibited  ? 
but  even  objects,  which  have  neither  beauty,  nor  gran- 
deur ;  nay,  fome,  which  are  terrible  or  deformed,  give 
us  pleafure  in  a  fecondary  or  reprefented  view. 

The  pleafures  of  melody  and  harmony  belong  alfo 
to  Tafte.  There  is  no  delightful  fenfation,  we  receive 
either  from  beauty  or  fublimity,  which  is  not  capable' 
of  being  heightened  by  the  power  of  mufical  found. 
Hence  the  charm  of  poetical  numbers  $  and  even  of 
the  concealed  and  loofer  meafures  of  profe.  Wit, 
humour,  and  ridicule  open  likewife  a  variety  of  pleaf- 
ures to  Tafte,  altogether  different  from  any  that  hav« 
yet  been  confidered. 

At  prefent  it  is  not  neceflary  to  purfue  any  farther 
the  fubject  of  the  Pleafures  of  Tafte.  We  have  opened 
fome  of  the  general  principles  5  it  is  time  now  to  ap- 
ply them  to  our  chief  fubject.  If  it  be  afked,  to  what 
clafs  of  thofe  Pleafures  of  Tafte,  which  have  been 
enumerated,  that  pleafure  is  to  be  referred,  which  wc 
receive  from  poetry,  eloquence,  or  fine  writing  ?  The 
anfwer  is,  not  to  any  one,  but  to  them  all.  This  pe- 
culiar advantage  writing  and  difcourfe  poffefs  $  they 
V  2 


3^       BEAUTY  AND  OTHER  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE.  . 

encompafs  a  large  and  fruitful  field  on  all  fides,  and-' 
have  power  to  exhibit  in  great  perfection,  not  a  fingle 
fet  of  objects  only,  but  almoft  the  whole1  of  thofc 
which  give  pleafure  to  tafte  and  imagination  •,  whether 
that  pleafure  arife  from  fublimity,  from  beauty  in  its 
various  forms,  from  defign  and  art,  from  moral  fenti- 
ment,  from  novelty,  from  harmony,  from  wit,  humour, 
or  ridicule.  To  which  foever  of  thefe  a  perfon's  tafte 
is  directed,  from  fome  writer  or  other  he  has  it  al- 
ways in  his  power  to  receive  the  gratification  of  it. 

It  has  been  ufual  among  critical  writers  to  treat  of 
difcourfe,  as  the  chief  of  all  the  imitative  arts.  They 
compare  it  with  painting  and  with  fculpture,  and  in 
many  refpecls  prefer  it  juftly  before  them.  But  we 
muft  diftinguifh  between  imitation  and  defcription. 
Words  have  no  natural  refemblance  of  the  ideas  or 
objects  which  they  fignify  ;  but  a  ftatue  or  picture 
has  a  natural  likenefs  of  the  original. 

As  far  however  as  a  poet  or  hiftorian  introduces  in-> 
to  his  work  perfons  really  fpeaking,  and  by  words* , 
which  he  puts  into  their  mouths,  reprefents  the  con- 
verfation  which  they  might  be  fuppofed  to  hold  ;  fo 
far  his  art  may  be  called  imitative  ;  and  this  is  the 
cafe  in  all  dramatic  competition.  But  in  narrative  or: 
deferiptive  works  it  cannot  with  propriety  be  fo  call- 
ed. Who,  for  example,  would  call  Virgil's  defcrip- 
ticn  of  a  tempeft  in  the  firft  JEneid  an  imitation  of  a 
ftorm  ?  Tf  we  heard  of  the  imitation  of  a  battle,  we 
might  naturally  think  of  fome  mock  fight,  or  repre- 
sentation of  a  battle  on  the  ftage  •,  but  fhould  never 
imagine  it  meant  one  of  Homer's  defcriptions  in  the 
Iliad.  It  muft  be  allowed  at  the  fame  time,  that  imita- 
tion and  defcriptbn  agree  in  their  principal  effe£t,  that. 


ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE.  J* 

of  recalling  by  external  figns  the  ideas  of  things 
which  we  do  not  fee.  But,  though  in  this  they  coin- 
cide, yet  it  mould  be  remembered,  that  the  terms 
themfelves  are  not  fynonimous  •,  that  they  import  dif- 
ferent means  of  producing  the  fame  end  $  and  con- 
fequently  make  different  imprefiions  on  the  mind. 


ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE, 

X  O  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  Origin  o£ 

Language,  we  muft  contemplate  the  circumftances  of 
mankind  in  their  earlieft  and  rudeft  ftate.  They  were 
then  a  wandering,  fcattered  race  ;  no  fociety  among 
them  except  families  5  and  family  fociety  alfo  very 
imperfe£t,  as  their  mode  of  living,  by  hunting  or  paf- 
turage,  muft  have  feparated  them  frequently  from 
each  other.  In  fuch  a  condition,  how  could  any  one 
fet  of  founds  or  words  be  univerfally  agreed  on,  as 
the  figns  of  their  ideas  ?  Suppofing  that  a  few,  whom 
chance  or  neceflity  threw  together,  agreed  by  fome 
means  upon  certain  figns  \  yet  by  what  authority 
could  thefe  be  fo  propagated  among  other  tribes  or 
families,  as  to  grow  up  into  a  language  ?  One  would 
imagine  that  men  muft  have  been  previoufly  gathered 
together  in  confiderable  numbers,  before  language 
could  be  fixed  and  extended  •,  and  yet  on  the  other 
hand  there  feems  to  have  jc-ti  an  abfolute  neceflity  of 
fpeech  previous  to  the  formation  of  fociety.  For 
by  what  bond  could  a  multitude  of  men  be  kept  to- 
gether, or  be  connected  in  profecution  of  any  com- 
mon intereft,  before  by  the  afliftance  of  fpeech  they 


jjj  ORIGIN   AND   PROGRESS    OF   LANGUAGE* 

could  communicate  their  wants  and  intentions  to  each 
other  ?  So  that,  how  fociety  eould  fubfift  previoufiy  to 
language,  and  how  words  could  rife  into  language  be* 
fore  the  formation  of  fociety,  feern  to  be  points  at- 
tended with  equal  difficulty.  When  we  confider  far- 
ther that  curious  analogy  which  prevails  in  the  con- 
struction of  almoft  all  languages,  and  that  deep  and 
fubtile  logic,  on  which  they  are  founded  ;  difficulties 
increafe  fo  much  upon  us,  on  all  fides,  that  there  feems 
to  be  no  fmail  reafon  for  referring  the  origin  of  all 
language  to  divine  infpi  ration. 

But?  fuppoiing  language  to  have  a  divine  original, 
we  cannot  imagine  that  a  perfect  fyitem  of  it  was  at 
once  given  to  man.  It  is  much  more  natural  to  fup- 
pofe  that  God  taught  our  firfl  parents  only  fuch  lan- 
guage as  fuited  their  prefent  oceafions  ;•  leaving  them* 
as  he  did  m  other  refpecls,  to  enlarge  and  improve  it 
as  their  future  neceffities  fhould  require.  .  Confequent-- 
ly,  thofe  rudiments  of  fpeeeh  mud  have  been  poor  and 
narrow  -9  and  we  are  at  liberty  to  inquire,  in  what 
manner,  and  by  what  Reps,  language  advanced  to  the 
ftate  in  which  we  now  find  it. 

Should  we  fuppofe  a  period  exifted  before  words- 
were  invented  or  known  j  it  is  evident  that  men 
could  have  no  other  method  of  communicating  their" 
feelings,  than  by  the  cries  of  paffion,  accompanied  by 
fuch  motions  and  geftures,  as  were  farther  expreffive 
of  emotion*  Thefe  indeed  are  the  only  figns  which, 
nature  teaches  all  men,  and  which  are  under  flood  by 
all.  One,  who  faw  another  going  into  fome  place, 
where  he  himfelf  had  been  frightened,  or  expofed  to 
danger,  and  who  wifhed  to  warn  his  neighbour  of  the 
danger^  could  contrive  no  other  method  of  doing  ify 


ORIGIN   AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE.  $$ 

than  by  uttering  thofe  cries,  and  making  thofe  geftures* 
which  are  the  figns  of  fear  ;  as  two  men  at  this  day 
would  endeavour  to  make  themfelves  understood  by 
each  other,  if  thrown  together  on  a  defolate  ifland, 
ignorant  of  each  other's  language.  Thofe  exclama- 
tions, therefore,  by  grammarians  called  interjections, 
uttered  in  a  ftrong  and  paffionate  manner,  were  un- 
doubtedly the  elements  of  fpeech. 

When  more  enlarged  communication  became  requi- 
fite,  and  names  began  to  be  applied  to  objefts  •,  how 
can  we  fuppofe  men  proceeded  in  this  application  of 
names,  or  invention  of  words  ?  Certainly  by  imitating, 
as  much  as  they  could,  the  nature  of  the  obje£t  nam- 
ed by  the  found  of  the  name  given  to  it.  Asa  paint- 
er, who  would  reprefent  grafs,  mult  employ  a  green 
colour  ;  fo  in  the  infancy  of  language  one,  giving  a 
name  to  any  thing  harfh  or  boifterous,  would  of  courfe 
employ  a  harfli  or  boifterous  found.  He  could  not 
do  other  wife,  if  he  de  fired  to  excite  in  the  hearer  the 
idea  of  that  obje£t  which  he  wifhed  to  name.  To 
imagine  words  invented,  or  names  given  to  things, 
without  any  ground  or  reafon,  is  to  fuppofe  an  e£Fe£fc 
without  a  caufe.  There  mud  always  have  been  fome 
motive  which  led  to  one  name,  rather  than  another  ; 
and  we  can  fuppofe  no  motive,  which  would  more 
generally  operate  upon  men  in  their  firft  efforts  to- 
ward language,  than  a  defire  to  paint  by  fpeech  the 
objedts  which  they  named  in  a  manner  more  or  lefc 
complete,  according  as  it  was  in  the  power  of  the  hu- 
man  voice  to  efFe£t  this  imitation. 

"Wherever  objects  were  to  be  named,  in  which 
found,  noife,  or  motion  was  concerned,  the  imitation 
fey  words  was  fufficiently  obvious.    Nothing  was  more 


34  ORIGIN    AND    PROGRESS    OF   LANGUAGE. 

natural,  than  to  imitate  by  the  found  of  the  voice  the 
quality  of  the  found  or  noife  which  any  external  ob- 
ject produced  ;  and  to  form  its  name  accordingly. 
Thus  in  all  languages  we  difcover  a  multitude  of 
words,  which  are  evidently  conflrucied  on  this  prin- 
ciple. A  certain  bird  is  called  the  Cuckoo,  from  the 
found  which  it  emits.  "When  one  fort  of  wind  is 
faid  to  whiji/e,  and  another  to  roar  ;  when  a  ferpent 
is  faid  to  hifs  ;  a  Hy  to  buzz,  and  falling  timber  to 
trap  ;  when  a  ftream  is  faid  to Jlow^  and  hail  to  rattle ; 
the  refemblance  between  the  word  and  the  thing  fig* 
rufied  is  plainly  difcernible.  But  in  the  names  of 
objects  which  addrefs  the  fight  only,  where  neither 
noife  nor  motion  is  concerned  ;  and  flill  more  in 
terms,  appropriated  to  moral  ideas,  this  analogy  ap- 
pears to  fail.  Yet  many  learned  men  have  imagined 
that,  though  in  fuch  cafes  it  becomes  more  obfcure, 
it  is  not  altogether  loll  ;  and  that  in  the  radical  words 
of  all  languages  there  may  be  traced  fome  degree  of 
correfpondence  with  the  objects  fignified. 

This  principle  however  of  a  natural  relation  between 
words  and  objects,  can  be  applied  to  language  only  in 
its  moft  fimple  and  early  (later  Though  in  every 
tongue  fome  remains  of  it  may  be  traced,  it  were  ut- 
terly in  vain  to  fearch  for  it  through  the  whole  con- 
ftruclion  of  any  modern  language.  As  terms  increafe 
in  every  nation,  and  the  vaft  fields  of  language  is  fill- 
ed up,  words  by  a  thoufand  fanciful  and  irregular 
methods  of  derivation  and  compofition  deviate  wide- 
ly from  the  primitive  character  of  their  roots,  and 
lofe  all  refemblance  in  found  of  the  things  fignified* 
This  is  the  prefent  ftate  of  language.  Words,  as  we 
now  ufe  them,  taken  in  general,  may  be  confidered 


ORIGIN    AND   PROGRESS   OF    LANGUAGE.  35 

as  fymbols,  not  imitations  ;  as  arbitrary  or  indituted, 
not  natural  figns  of  ideas.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  language,  the  nearer  we  approach  to  its  rife 
among  men,  will  be  found  to  partake  more  of  a  nat- 
ural expreflion. 

Interjections,  it  has  been  mown,  or  paffionate~ex- 
clamations,  were  the  elements  of  fpeech.  Men  la- 
boured to  communicate  their  feelings  to  each  other 
fey  thofe  expreffive  cries  and  gedures,  which  nature 
taught  them.  After  words,  or  names  of  objects,  be- 
gan to  be  invented,  this  mode  of  fpeaking  by  natural 
(igns  could  not  be  all  at  once  difufed.  For  language' 
in  its  infancy  mud  have  been  extremely  barren  ;  and 
there  certainly  was  a  period  among  all  rude  nations, 
when  coiiverfation  was  carried  on  by  a  very  few 
words,  intermixed  with  many  exclamations  and  earn- 
ed geftures.  The  fmall  (lock  of  words  which  men 
then  poiTefled,  rendered  thofe  helps  entirely  neceiTary 
for  explaining  their  conceptions  ;  and  rude,  unculti- 
vated individuals,  not  having  always  ready  even  the 
few  words  which  they  know,  would  naturally  labour 
to  make  themfelves  underdood  by  varying  their  tones 
of  voice,  and  by  accompanying  their  tones  with  the 
moll  expreffive  gediculations. 

To  this  mode  of  fpeaking,  neceffity  gave  rife.  But 
we  mud  obferve  that,  after  this  neceffity  had  in  a 
great  degree  ceafed,  by  language  becoming  in  procefs 
of  time  more  extenfive  and  copious,  the  ancient  man- 
ner of  fpeech  dill  fubfifted  among  many  nations  ;  and, 
what  had  arifen  from  neceffity,  continued  to  be  ufed 
for  ornament.  In  the  Greek  and  Roman  languages,  a 
mufical  and  gediculating  pronunciation  was  retained 
in  a  very  high  degree.     Without  attending  to  this,  we 


36  01UG1N  AND  FR0GKESS  OF  LANGUAGE. 

fhall  be  at  a  lofs  in  understanding  fevcral  paflages  of 
the  Claflics,  which  relate  to  the  public  fpeaking  and 
theatrical  entertainments  of  the  ancients.  Our  mod- 
ern pronunciation  would  have  feemed  to  them  a  life- 
lefs  monotony.  The  declamation  of  their  orators  and 
the  pronunciation  of  their  actors  upon  the  ftage  ap- 
proached to  the  nature  of  recitative  in  mufie  ;  was 
capable  of  being  marked  by  notes,  and  fupported  by 
instruments  ;  as  feveral  learned  men  have  proved. 

With  regard  to  gefture,  the  cafe  was  parallel  ;  for 
ftrong  tones  and  animated  geftures  always  go  togeth- 
er. The  action  both  of  orators  and  players  in  Greece 
and  Rome  was  far  more  vehement  than  that  to 
which  we  are  accuftomed.  To  us,  Rofcius  would  ap- 
pear a  madman.  Gefture  was  of  fuch  confequence  on 
the  ancient  ftage,  that  there  is  reafon  for  believing  that 
on  fome  occafions  the  fpeaking  and  the  acting  were 
divided  \  which,  according  to  our  ideas,  would  form 
a  ftrange  exhibition.  One  player  fpoke  the  words  in 
the  proper  tones,  while  another  expreffed  the  corres- 
ponding motions  and  geftures.  Cicero  tells  us,  it  was 
a  conteft  between  him  and  Rofcius,  whether  he  could 
exprefs  a  fentiment  in  a  greater  variety  of  phrafes,  or 
Rofcius  in  a  greater  variety  of  intelligible  fignificant 
geftures.  At  laft,  gefture  engroffed  the  ftage  entirely  £ 
for  under  the  reigns  of  Auguftus  and  Tiberius,  the 
favourite  entertainment  of  the  public  was  the  Panto*- 
mime,  which  was  carried  on  by  gefticiilation  only. 
The  people  were  moved,  and  wept  at  it  as  much  as 
at  tragedies  ;  and  the  paflion  for  it  became  fo  violent* 
that  laws  were  made  for  reftraining  the  fenators  from 
ftudying  the  pantomime  art.  Now,  though  in  decla- 
mations and  theatrical  exhibitions  both  tone  and  gef- 


ORIGIN   AND   PROGRESS   OF  LANGUAGE.  37 

tiure  were  carried  much  farther  than  in  common  dif- 
courfe  ;  yet  public  fpeaking  of  any  kind  mud  in  every 
country  bear  ibme  proportion  to  the  manner  which 
is  ufed  in  converfation  ;  and  fuch  public  entertain- 
ments could  never  be  relifhed  by  a  nation  whofe  tones 
and  geftures  in  difcourfe  were  as  languid  as  ours. 

The  early  language  of  men,  being  entirely  compof- 
*cd  of  words  defcriptive  of  fenfible  objects,  became  of 
neceflity  extremely  metaphorical.  For,  to  fignify  any 
defire  or  paffion,  or  any  acT:  or  feeling  of  the  mind, 
they  had  no  fixed  exprefTion  which  was  appropriated 
to  that  purpofe  5  but  were  obliged  to  paint  the  emo- 
tion or  paffion,  which  they  felt,  by  alluding  to  thofe 
fenfible  objects  which  had  mod  connexion  with  it, 
and  which  could  render  it  in  fome  degree  vifible  to 
others. 

But  it  was  not  neceflity  alone,  that  gave  rife  to  this 
pictured  ftyle.  In  the  infancy  of  all  focieties,  fear 
and  furprife,  wonder  and  aftonifhment,  are  the  moft 
frequent  paflions  of  men.  Their  language  will  nec- 
eiTarily  be  affecled  by  this  character  of  their  minds. 
They  will  be  difpofed  to  paint  every  thing  in  the 
ftrongeft  colours.  Even  the  manner,  in  which  the  firft 
tribes  of  men  uttered  their  words,  had  confiderable 
influence  on  their  ftyle.  Wherever  ft-rong  exclama- 
tions, tones,  and  geftures  are  connected  with  conver- 
fation, the  imagination  is  always  more  exercifed  ;  a 
greater  effort  of  fancy  and  paffion  is  excited* 
Thus  the  fancy,  being  kept  awake  and  rendered  more 
fprightly  by  this  mode  of  utterance,  operates  upon 
ftyle,  and  gives  it  additional  life  and  fpirit. 

As  one  proof  among  many,  which  might  be  pro- 
duced, of  the  truth  of  thefe  obfervationsj  we  (hall 
E 


3$  ORIGIN   AMD    PROGRESS   OF  LANGUAGE. 

transcribe  a  fpeech  from  Coklen's  Hiftory  of  the  Five 
Indian  Nations,  which  was  delivered  by  their  Chiefs, 
when  entering  on  a  treaty  of  peace  with  us,  in  the 
following  language.  "  We  are  happy  in  having  buri- 
**  ed  under  ground  the  red  axe,  that  has  fo  often  been 
41  dyed  in  the  blood  of  our  brethren.  Now  in  this 
€i  fort  we  inter  the  axe,  and  plant  the  tree  of  peace. 
€(  We  plant  a  tree,  whofe  top  will  reach  the  fun  ;  and 
€i  its  branches  fpread  abroad,  fo  that  it  (hall  be  feen 
u  afar  off.  May  its  growth  never  be  ftifled  and  chok- 
€(  ed  ;  but  may  it  (hade  both  your  country  and  ours 
*'  with  its  leaves  !  Let  us  make  fa  ft  its  roots,  and  ex- 
c<  tend  them  to  the  utrnoft  of  your  colonies.  If  the 
€<  flench  ffiould  come,  to  (hake  this  tree,  we  fhould 
*'  know  it  by  the  motion  of  its  roots  reaching  into  our 
f<  country.  May  the  Great  Spirit  allow  us  to  refl  in 
€t  tranquillity  upon  our  mats,  and  never  again  dig  up 
<c  the  axe,  to  cut  down  the  tree  of  peace  !  Let  the 
€(  earth  be  trodden  hard  over  it,  where  it  lies  buried. 
cc  Let  a  flrong  ftream  run  under  the  pit,  to  wafh  the 
cc  evil  away  out  of  our  fight  and  remembrance.  The 
u  fire,  that  had  long  burned  in  Albany,  is  extinguifh- 
<c  ed.  The  bloody  bed  is  wafhed  clean,  and  the  tears 
€t  are  wiped  from  our  eyes.  We  now  renew  the 
w  covenant  chain  of  friendfhip.  Let  it  be  kept  bright 
**  and  clean  as  filver,  and  not  fuffered  to  contract  any 
$i  ruft.  Let  not  any  one  pull  away  his  arm  from  it.*' 
As  language  in  its  progrefs  grew  more  copious,  it 
gradually  loft  that  figurative  (lyle,  which  was  its  early 
character.  The  vehement  manner  of  fpeaking  by 
tones  and  geftures  became  lefs  common.  Inftead  of 
poets,  phiiofophers  became  the  inftru&ors  of  men  ; 
andin  their  reafoning  on  all  fubjects  introduced  that 


RISE    AND   PROGRESS   OF   LANGUAGE,    &C         29 


we  now  call  Proie.  JLhus  the  ancient  metaphorical 
and  poetical  drefs  of  Language  was  at  length  laid 
afide  in  the  intercourfe  of  men,  and  referved  for  thofe 
©ccafions  only,  on  which  ornament  was  profcffedly 
itudied. 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE  AND 
OF  WRITING. 

W  HEN  we  examine  the  order  in  which 
words  are  arranged  in  a  fentence,  we  find  a  very- 
remarkable  difference  between  ancient  and  modern 
tongues.  The  confideration  of  this  will  ferve  to  un- 
fold farther  the  genius  of  Language,  and  to  fhew  the 
cauies  of  thofe  alterations,  it  has  undergone  in  the. 
progrefs  ot  fociety. 

To  conceive  diitindly  the  nature  of  this  alteration, 
we  muft  go  back,  as  before,  to  the  earlieft  period  of 
Language.  Let  us  figure  to  ourfelves  a  Savage  be- 
holding feme  fruit,  which  he  earnedly  defires,  and  re- 
r  to  give  him.  Suppofe  him  unac- 
quainted wiih  words,  he  would  drive  to  make  himfelf 
underftood  by  pointing  eagerly  at  the  object  detired> 
and  uttering  at  the  fame*  time  a  pafiionate  cry.  Sup- 
pofing  him  to  have  acquired  words,  the  firft  word 
which  he  would  utter  would  be  the  name  of  that  ob- 
ject. He  would  not  exprefs  himfelf  according  to  our 
order  of  conduction,  "  Give  me  fruit  £'  but  accord- 
ing to  the  Latin  order,  "  Fruit  give  me,"  "  Fructum 
"  da  mini,"  for  this  plain  reafon,  that  his  attention  was 
wholly  directed  toward  fruit,  the  object  defired.  Hence 


40  RISE    AND   PROGRESS   OP 

we  might  conclude  a  prioriy  that  this  was  the  order  in 
which  words  were  moft  commonly  arranged  in  the' 
infancy  of  Language  ;  and  accordingly  we  find  in  reali-- 
ty  that  in  this  order  words  are  arranged  in  moft  of 
the  ancient  tongues,  as  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  ;  and  it 
is  faid  likewife  in  the  Ruffian,  Sclavonic,  Gaelic  andi 
fevcral  American  tongues. 

The  modern  languages  of  Europe  have  adopted  a- 
different  arrangement  from  the  ancient.  In  their  profc 
compofitions  very  little  variety  is  admitted  in  the  col- 
location of  words  ;  they  are  chiefly  fixed  to  one  order^ 
which  may  be  called  the  Order  of  the  Underftandingo 
They  place  firft  in  the  fentence  the  perfon  or  thing, 
which  fpeaks  or  ads  ;  next,  its  aft  ion  ;  and  laftly,  the 
objecT  of  its  aftion.  Thus  an  Engliih  writer,  paying 
a  compliment  to  a  great  man,  would  fay,  "  It  is  im* 
"  poflible  for  me  to  pafs  over  in  fJence  fo  diftingui(h> 
u  ed  mildnefs,  fo  lingular  and  unheard  of  clemency, 
11  and  fo  uncommon  moderation,  in  the  exercife  of 
■?  fupreme  power."  Here  is  firft  prefented  to  us  the 
perfon  who  fpeaks,  *\  It  is  impofiible  for  me  $*  next, 
what  the  fame  perfon  is  to  do,  "  to  pafs  over  infilence ;" 
and  laftly,  the  obje£l  which  excites  him  to  aftion, 
"  the  mildnefs,  clemency,  and  moderation  of  his  pat* 
u  ron."  Cicero,  from  whom  thefe  words  are  tranflat- 
cd,  reverfes  this  order.  He  begins  with  the  obje£t  \ 
places  that  firft,  which  was  the  exciting  idea  in  the 
fpeaker's  mind,  and  ends  with  the  fpeaker  and  his  ac- 
tion. "  Tantam  manfuetudinem,  tarn  inufitatam  in- 
"  auditamque  clementiam,  tantumque  in  fumma  po- 
H  teftate  rerurn  omnium  modum,  tacitus  nullo  modo 
u  prxterire  poflum."  Here,  it  muft  be  obferved,  the 
Latin  order  is  more  animated ;  the  English  more  cleaf 
and  diflinft. 


LANGUAGE   AND   OF   WRITING.  41 

Our  language  naturally  allows  greater  liberty  for 
franfpofition  and  inverfion  in  poetry,  than  in  profe. 
Even  there  however  this  liberty  is  confined  within  nar- 
row limits,  in  companion  with  the  ancient  languages. 
In  this  reipeft,  modern  tongues  vary  from  each  other. 
The  Italian  approaches  the  neareit  in  its  character  to 
the  ancient  tranfpofition  •,  the  Englifh  has  more  in* 
verfion  than  the  reft  ;  and  the  French  has*  the  leaft 
of  all.  - 

Writing  is  an  improvement  upon  Speech,  and  con- 
fequently  was  pofterior  to  it  in  order  of  time.  Its 
.-rafters  are  of  two  kinds,  figns  of  things,  and  figns 
of  words.  Thus  the  pictures,  hieroglyphics,  and  fym- 
bols,  employed  by  the  ancients,  were  of  the  former 
fort  ;  the  alphabetical  characters,  now  employed  by 
Europeans,  of  the  latter. 

Pictures  were  certainly  the  firft.  attempt  toward 
writing,  Mankind  in  all  ages  and  in  all  nations  have 
been  prone  to  imitation.  This  would  foon  be  em- 
ployed for  defcribing  and  recording  events*  Thus,  to 
fignify  that  one  man  had  killed  another,  they  painted 
the  figure  of  one  man  lying  on  the  ground,  and  of 
another  {landing  by  him  with  a  hoilile  weapon  in  h 
hand.  When  America  was  firft  difccvered,  this  was 
the  only  kind  of  writing  with  which  the  Mexicans 
were  acquainted.  It  was  however  a  very  imperfect 
mode  of  recording  fafts  ;  fince  by  pictures  exter- 
nal events  only  could  be  delineated. 

Hieroglyphical  characters  may  be  confidered  as  the 
fecond  ftage  of  the  Art  of  Writing.  They  confift  of 
certain  fymbols,  which  are  made  to  (land  for  invifible 
objefts  on  account  of  their  fuppofed  refemblance  of* 
the  objefts  themfelves.  Thus  an  eye  reprefented 
E  2     „ 


4*  RISE   AND   PROGRESS  OF 

knowledge  ;  and  a  circle,  having  neither  beginning 
nor  end,  was  the  fymbol  of  eternity.  Egypt  was  the 
country  where  this  kind  of  writing  was  mod  ftudiedr 
and  brought  into  a  regular  art.  By  thefe  chara&ers 
all  the  boafted  wifdom  of  their  priefts  was  conveyed* 
They  pitched  upon  animals  to  be  the  emblems  o£ 
moral  objects,  according  to  the  qualities  with  which 
they  fuppofed  them  to  be  endued.  Thus  imprudence 
was  denominated  by  a  fly  ^  wifdom,  by  an  ant  ;  and 
vi£lory,  by  a  hawk.  But  this  fort  of  writing  was  in 
the  higheft  degree  enigmatical  and  confufed  ;  and 
confequently  a  very  imperfect  vehicle  of  knowledge. 

From  hieroglyphics  fome  nations  gradually  advanc- 
ed to  fimple  arbitrary  marks,  which  flood  for  obje&s* 
*  hough  -without  any  refemblance  of  the  obje£k  fignifi- 
ed.  Of  this  nature  was  the  writing  of  the  Peruvians. 
They  ufed  fmall  cords  of  different  colours  ^  and  by 
knots  upon  thefe,  of  different  fizes  and  varioufly  rang- 
ed, they  invented  figns  for  communicating  their 
thoughts  to  one  another.  The  Chinefe  at  this  day  ufe 
written  chara£lers  of  this  nature.  They  have  no  al- 
phabet of  letters  or  fimple  founds  of  which  their 
words  are  compofed  ;  but  every  fingle  chara&er, 
which  they  ufe,  is  expreffive  of  an  idea  \  it  is  a  mark, 
which  (igaifies  fome  one  thing  or  objeft.  The  num- 
ber of  thefe  chara£lers  rnuft  confequently  be  immenfe* 
They  are  faid  indeed  to  amount  to  feventy  thoufand. 
To  be  perfectly  acquainted  with  them  is  the  bufmefs 
of  a  whole  life  ;  which  muft  have  greatly  retarded 
among  them  the  progrefs  of  every  kind  of  fcience. 

It  is  evident  that  the  Chinefe  chara£ters,  like  hiero- 
glyphics, are  figns  of  things,  and  not  of  words-  For 
we  are  told,  that  the  Japan  efe,  the  Tonquinefe,  and 


LANGUAGE  AND  OF  WRITING,  45 

the  Corceans,.  who  fpeak  different  languages  from 
each  other,  and  from  the  inhabitants  of  China,  ufe 
however  the  fame  written  characters  with  them,  and 
thus  correfpond  intelligibly  with  one  another  in  writ- 
ing, though  mutually  ignorant  of  each  Others'  lan- 
guage. Our  arithmetical  figures,  1,  2,  3,  4,  &c.  are 
an  example  of  this  fort  of  writing.  They  have  no 
dependence  on  words  ;  each  figure  reprefents  the 
number  for  which  it  (lands  ;  and  confequently  is 
equally  underftood  by  all  nations,  who  have  agreed  in 
the  ufe  of  thefe  figures. 

The  firft  ftep,  to  remedy  the  imperfection,  the 
ambiguity,  and  the  tedioufnefs  of  each  of  the  methods- 
of  communication,  which  have  been  mentioned,  was 
the  invention  of  figns,  which  fhould  ft  and  not  direct- 
ly for  things,  but  for  words  by  which  things  were 
named  and  diftinguifhed.  An  alphabet  of  fylla- 
bles  feems  to  have  been  invented  previoufly  to 
an  alphabet  of  letters.  Such  a  one  is  faid  to  be 
retained  at  this  day  in  ^Ethiopia  and  fome  countries 
of  India.  But  at  belt  it  mud  have  been  imperfect 
and  ineffectual  ;  fi nee  the  number  of  characters,  be- 
ing very  confiderable,  muft  have  rendered  both  read- 
ing and  writing  very  complex  and  laborious. 

To  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  fublime  and  re- 
fined difcovery  of  letters,  is  not  determined.  They 
were  brought  into  Greece  by  Cadmus,  the  Phoenician,  „ 
who,  according  to  Sir  Ifaac  Newton's  Chronology, 
was  contemporary  with  king  David.  His  alphabet 
contained  only  fixteen  letters.  The  reft  were  after- 
ward added,  according  as  figns  for  proper  founds  were 
found  to  be  wanting.  The  Phoenician,  Hebrew, 
Greek,  and  Roman  alphabets  agree  fo  much  in  the 
figure,  names,   and  arrangement  of  the  letters,  as 


44^  STRUCTURE    02  LANGUAGE 

amounts  to  clem  on  lira  tion,  that  they  were  denvecY 
originally  from  the  fame  fource. 

The  ancient  order  of  writing  was  from  the  right 
hand  to  the  left.  This  method,  as  appears  from  fome 
very  old  infcriptions,  prevailed  even  among  the  Greeks. 
They  afterward  ufed  to  write  their  lines  alternately 
from  the  right  to  the  left,  and  from  the  left  to  the 
right.  The  inscription  on  the  famous  Sigsean  monu- 
ment is  a  fpecimen  of  this  mode  of  writing,  which 
continued  till  the  days  of  Solon,  the  celebrated  Legis- 
lator of  Athens.  At  length,  the  motion  from  the- 
left  hand  to  the  right,  being  found  more  natural  and 
convenient,  this  order  of  writing  was  adopted  by  all: 
the  nations  of  Europe. 

Writing  was  firii  exhibited  on  pillars  and  tables  of 
ft  one  5  afterward  on  plates  of  the  fofter  metals.  As 
it  became  more  common,  the  leaves  and  bark  of  cer- 
tain trees  were  ufed  in  fome  countries  ;  and  in  oth- 
ers, tablets  of  wood,  covered  with  a  thin  coat  of  foft 
wax,  on  which  the  imprefiion  was  made  with  a  ftylus  of 
iron,  parchment;,  made  of  the  hides  of  animals,  was* 
an  invention  of  later  times.  Paper  was  not  invented 
before  the  fourteenth  century. 


STRUCTURE   OF  LANGUAGE. 

x  HE  common  divifion  of  Speech  into  eight- 
parts,  nouns,  pronouns,  verbs,  participles,  adverbs,  pre- 
pofitions,  interjections,  and  conjunctions,  is  not  very 
accurate  ;  fmce  under  the  general  term  of  nouns  it 
comprehends  both  fubftantives  and  adjectives,  which 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGBr  4  J 

ate  parts  of  fpeech  eflentially  diftincT:.  Yet,  as  we 
a* e  moft  accuftomed  to  this  divifion,  and,  as  logical 
exa&nefs  is  not  necefiary  to  our  prefent  defign,  we 
(hall  adopt  thefe  terms,  which  habit  has  made  fa- 
miliar to  us» 

Subftantive  nouns  are  the  foundation  of  Grammar* 
md  the  moft  ancient  part  of  fpeech.  When  men  had 
advanced  beyond  fimple  interjections  or  exclamations 
of  paflion,  and  had  begun  to  communicate  their  ideas 
to  each  other,  they  would  be  obliged  to  affign  names 
to  objects  by  which  they  were  furrounded.  Where- 
cver  a  favage  looked,  he  beheld  forefts  and  trees.  To 
diftinguifh  each  by  a  feparate  name  would  have  beers 
endlefs.  Their  common  qualities,  fuch  as  fpringing 
from  a  root,  and  bearing  branches  and  leaves,  would 
fugged  a  general  idea  and  a  general  name.  The  ge- 
nus, tree,  was  afterward  fubdivided  into  itsfeveral  fpe- 
cies  of  oak,  elm,  afh,  &c.  upon  experience  and  obfer- 
vation, 

Still  however  only  general  terms  were  ufed  in  fpeecfu 
For  oak,  elm,  and  afh,  were  names  of  whole  clafies  of 
objects,  each  of  which  comprehended  an  immenfe 
number  of  undiftinguifhed  individuals.  Thus,  when 
the  nouns  man,  lion,  or  tree,  were  mentioned  in  con- 
verfation,  it  could  not  be  known,  which  man,  lion,  or 
tree,  was  meant  among  the  multitude,  comprehended 
under  one  name.  Hence  arofe  a  very  ufeful  contriv- 
ance for  determining  the  individual  object:  intended, 
by  mean  of  that  part  of  fpeech  called  the  Article. 
In  Englifli,  we  have  two  articles,  a  and  the ;  a  is  more 
general,  the  more  definite.  The  Greeks  had  but  one, 
which  agrees  with  our  definite  article  the.  They  fup- 
plied  the  place  of  our  article  a  by  the  abfence  of  their 


i6  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 

article  ;  thus  Aydfvwos  fignifies  a  man,  b  A*9p;r^  the 
man.  The  Latins  had  no  article  \  but  in  the  room  of 
it  ufed  the  pronouns  hie,  ille,  iite.  This,  however, 
feems  a  defecr,  in  their  language  \  fmce  articles  cer- 
tainly  contribute   much  to  perfpicuity  and  precifion. 

To  perceive  the  truth  of  this  remark,  obferve  the 
different  imports  of  the  following  expreilions  :  "  The 
"  fon  of  a  king,  the  fori  of  thqking,  a  for*  of  the  king's." 
Each  of  thefe  three  phrafes  has  a  feparate  meaning,, 
too  obvious  to  be  mifunderitocd.  But,  in  Latin* 
u  filius  regis"  is  entirely  undetermined  ;  it  may  bear 
either  of  the  three  fenies  mentioned. 

Befide  this  quality  of  being  defined  by  the  article* 
three  affections  belong  to  nouns,  number,  gender  and 
cafe,  which  deierve  to  be  confidered. 

Number,  as  it  makes  a  noun  fignificant  of  one  or 
more,  is  fingular  or  plural  -,  a  diftindtion  found  in  all 
tongues,  which  mull  have  been  coeval  with  the  ori- 
gin of  language,  fince  there  were  few  things,  which, 
men  had  more  frequent  neceCky  of  expreiling,  than 
the  diftindtion  between  one  and  more.  In  the  He- 
brew, Greek,  and  fome  other  ancient  languages,  we 
find  not  only  a-plural,  but  a  dual  number  \  the  origia 
of  which  may  very  naturally  be  accounted  for,  as  fep- 
arate  terms  of  numbering  were  yet  undiscovered,  and 
one,  two,  and  many,  were  all,  or  at  lead  the  principal 
numeral  diitindtions,  which  men  at  firfl  had  any  occa- 
fion  to  make. 

Gender,  which  is  founded  on  the  diftindtion  of 
the  two  fexes,  can  with  propriety  be  applied  to  the 
names  of  living  creatures  only.    All  other  nouns  ought 
to  be  of  the  neuter  gender.     Yet  in  moft   langua:: 
the  fame  diftindtion  Is  applied  to  a  great  number  of 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.         47 

inanimate  obj  efts.  Thus,  in  the  Latin  tongue,  enfis^  a 
fword,  is  mafcuKne  ;  fagiita^  an  arrow,  is  feminine  ; 
and  this  afiignation  of  fex  to  inanimate  objeds  often 
appears  entirely  capricious.  In  the  Greek  and  L:  tin, 
however,  all  inanimate  objefts  are  not  diftributed  into 
mafculine  and  feminine  ;  but  many  of  them  are  chfT- 
ed,  where  all  ought  to  be,  under  the  neuter  gender  ; 
as,yk\v//»,  a  rock  ;  mare^  the  fea.  But  in  the  French  and 
Italian  tongues,  the  neuter  gender  is  wholly  unknown, 
all  their  names  of  inanimate  objects  being  put  upon  the 
fame  footing  with  thofe  of  living  creatures,  and  dittrib- 
uted  without  referve  into  mafculine  and  feminine.  In 
theEnglifh  language,  all  nouns,  literally  ufed,  that  are 
the  names  of  living  creatures,  are  neuter ;  and  ours  is, 
perhaps,  the  only  tongue  (except  the  Chinefe,  which 
is  faid  to  referable  it  in  this  particular)  in  which  the 
diftinction  of  gender  is  philofophically  applied. 

Case  denotes  the  date  or  relation  which  one  ob- 
ject bears  to  another,  by  fome  variation  of  the  name 
of  that  object,  ;  generally  in  the  final  letters,  and  by 
fome  languages  in  the  initial.  All  tongues  however 
do  not  agree  in  this  mode  of  exprefuon.  Declenfion 
is  ufed  by  the  Greek  and  Latin  ;  but  in  the  Englifli, 
French,  and  ftaftah,  it  is  not  found  ;  or,  at  mod,  it  exifts 
in  a  very  imperfect,  (late.  Thefe  languages  exprerfc 
the  relations  of  objects  by  prepofitions,  which  are  the 
names  of  thofe  relations  prefixed  to  the  names  of 
objects.  Englifli  nouns  have  no  cafe,  except  a  fort 
of  genitive,  commonly  formed  by  adding  the  letter  s 
to  the  noun  ;  as,  when  we  fay  "  Pope's  Dunciad," 
meaning  the  Dunciad  of  Pope. 

Whether  the  moderns  have  given  beauty  or  utility 
to  language,  by  the  abolition  of  cafes,  may  perhaps  be 
doubted.     They  have,  however,  certainly  rendered  it 


4B         STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 

more  fimple,  by  removing  that  intricacy  which  arofc 
from  different  forms  of  declenfion,  and  from  the  ir- 
regularities of  the  feveral  declenfions.  But  in  obtain- 
ing this  fimplicity,  it  muft  be  confeffed,  we  have  filled 
language  with  a  multitude  of  thofe  little  words,  call- 
ed prepofitions,  which,  by  perpetually  occurring  in 
every  fentence,  encumber  fpeech  ;  and,  by  rendering  it 
more  prolix,  enervate  its  force.  The  found  of  modern 
language  is  alfo  lefs  agreeable  to  the  ear,  being  depriv- 
ed of  that  variety  and  fweetnefs,  which  arofe  from 
the  length  of  words,  and  the  change  of  terminations, 
©ccafioned  by  cafes  in  the  Greek  and  Latin.  But  per- 
haps the  greateft  difad vantage  we  fuftain  by  the  abo- 
lition of  cafes,  is  the  lofs  of  that  liberty  of  tranfpofi- 
tlon,  in  the  arrangement  of  words,  which  the  ancient 
languages  enjoyed. 

Pronouns  are  the  reprefentatives  of  nouns,  and  are 
£ubje£t  to  the  fame  modifications  of  number,  gender, 
and  cafe.  We  may  obferve,  however,  that  the  pro- 
nouns of  the  firft  and  fecond  perfon,  /  and  thou,  have 
no  diftin&ion  of  gender  in  any  language  ;  for,  as  they 
always  refer  to  perfons  prefent,  their  fex  muft  be 
known,  and  therefore  needs  not  to  be  marked  by  their 
pronouns.  But,  as  the  third  perfon  may  be  abfent, 
or  unknown,  the  diftin&ion  of  gender  there  becomes 
requifite  5  and  accordingly  in  Engliih  it  hath  all  three 
genders,  he,  Jhe,  it. 

Adjectives,  a$,jlrong,  weak,  handfome,  ugly,  are  the 
plaineft  and  mod  fimple  in  that  clafs  of  words,  which 
are  termed  attributive.  They  are  common  to  all  lan- 
guages, and  muft  have  been  very  early  invented  ;  fince 
obje&s  could  neither  be  diftmguHhed  nor  treated  of 
in  difcourfe,  before  names  were  afligned  to  their  dif* 
ferent  qualities. 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.         49 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.      ENGLISH 
TONGUE. 

WF  all  the  parts  of  fpeech,  Verbs  are  by  far  the 
inoft  complex  and  ufeful.  From  their  importance  we 
may  juftly  conclude,  that  they  were  coeval  with  the 
origin  of  language  ;  though  a  long  time  muft  have 
been  requifite  to  rear  them  up  to  that  accuracy  which 
they  now  poffefs. 

The  tenfes  were  contrived  to  mark  the  feveral 
diftin&ions  of  time.  We  commonly  think  of  no  more 
than  its  three  great  divifions,  the  pad,  the  prefenr, 
and  the  future  ;  and  we  might  fuppofe  that,  if  verbs 
had  been  fo  contrived  as  merely  to  exprefs  thefe,  no 
more  was  neceflary.  But  language  proceeds  with 
much  greater  fubtilty.  It  divides  time  into  its  fever- 
al moments  ;  it  regards  it  as  never  Handing  ftill,  but 
always  flowing  ;  things  paft,  as  more  or  lefs  diftant ; 
and  things  future,  as  more  or  lefs  remote  by  different 
gradations.  Hence  the  variety  of  tenfes  in  almoft 
every  language. 

The  prefent  may  indeed  be  always  regarded  as  one 
indivifible  point,  which  admits  no  variety  -9  "  I  am," 
"fum."  But  it  is  not  fo  with  the  paQ:.  Even  the 
pooreft  language  has  two  or  three  tenfes  to  exprefs 
its  varieties.  Ours  has  four.  1.  A  paft  action  may 
be  reprefented  as  unfinifhed,  by  the  imperfect  tenfe  j 
u  I  was  walking,  ambulabamP  2.  As  finiihed  by  the 
perfect  tenfc,  "  I  have  walked."  3.  As  finiihed  fome 
time  fince,  the  particular  time  being  left  undetermin- 
ed j  "  I  walked,  ambulavi  f  this  is  what  gramma* 
F 


JO  STRUCTURE  OY  LANGUAGE.         % 

rians  call  an  aorift  or  indefinite  pail.  4.  As  finiflied 
before  fomething  elfe,  which  is  alio  paft.  This  i^ 
the  plufquamperfeft  ;  "  I  had  walked,  ambulaveram. 
*'  I  had  walked  before  you  called  upon  me.'*  Our 
language,  we  mull  perceive  with  pleafure,  has  an  ad- 
vantage over  the  Latin,  which  has  only  three  varia- 
tions of  paft  time. 

The  varieties  in  future  time  are  two  ;  a  fimple  or 
indefinite  future  ;  "  I  fhall  walk,  ambulabo  $*  and  a 
future  having  reference  to  fomething  elfe,  which  is 
like  wife  future  ;  H  I  mail  have  walked,  ambulavero  \ 
"  I  (hall  have  walked,  before  he  will  pay  me  a  vifit." 

Befide  tenfes,  verbs  admit  the  diftinflion  of  voices, 
viz.  the  a£Hve  and  paffive  ;  as,  "  I  love,  or  I  am  loved." 
They  admit  alfo  the  diftin£tion  of  modes,  which  are 
intended  to  exprefs  the  perceptions  and  volitions  of 
the  mind  under  different  forms.  The  indicative  mode 
fimply  declares  a  prepofition  ;  "  I  write  ;  I  have 
"  written."  The  imperative  requires,  commands,  or 
threatens  ;  "  Write  thou  ;  let  him  write."  The  fub- 
]un£Hve  expreffes  a  propofition  under  the  form  of  a 
condition,  or  as  fubordinate  to  fomething  to  which 
reference  is  made  \  "  I  might  write  ;  I  could  write ; 
*(  I  (hould  write,  if  the  matter  were  fo."  This  expref- 
fion  of  the  perceptions  and  volitions  of  the  mind  in 
fo  many  various  forms,  together  with  the  diftin&ion  of 
the  three  perfons,  i,  thou>  and  hey  conftitutes  the  con^ 
jugation  of  verbs,  which  makes  fo  great  a  part  of  the 
Grammar  of  all  languages. 

Conjugation  is  reckoned  moft  perfe£i  in  thofe  lan- 
guages, which,  by  varying  the  termination,  or  the  initial 
fyllable  of  the  verb,  exprefles  the  greateft  number  of 
important  circumftances  without  the  help  of  auxiliary 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.         $t 

Verbs.  In  the  Oriental  tongues  verbs  have  few  tenfes  5 
but  their  modes  are  fo  contrived,  as  to  exprefs  a 
great  variety  of  circumftances  and  relations.  In  the 
Hebrew  they  fay  in  One  word,  without  the  aid  of  an 
auxiliary,  not  only,  "  I  taught,"  but,  "  I  was  taught ;  I 
"  caufed  to  teach  ;  I  was  caufed  to  teach  -,  I  taught 
lc  myfelf."  The  Greek,  which  is  commonly  thought 
to  be  the  mod  perfect  of  all  languages,  is  very  regular 
and  complete  in  the  modes  and  tenfes.  The  Latin, 
though  formed  on  the  fame  model,  is  not  fo  perfect  ; 
particularly  in  the  paiTive  voice,  which  forms  mod  of 
the  tenfes  by  the  aid  of  the  auxiliary  "  fum"  In 
modern  European  tongues,  conjugation  is  very  defec- 
tive. The  two  great  auxiliary  verbs,  to  have  and  to  be% 
with  thofe  other  auxiliaries,  which  we  ufe  in  Englifh, 
doyfljall,  willy  may>  and  can>  prefixed  to  a  participle,  or 
to  another  verb  in  the  infinitive  mode,  fuperfede  in  a 
great  meafure  the  different  terminations  of  modes 
and  tenfes  which  formed  the  ancient  conjugations. 

The  other  parts  of  fpeech,  as  they  admit*  no  varia- 
tion, will  require  only  a  fhort  difcuflion. 

Adverbs  are  for  the  mod  part  an  abridged  mode  of 
fpeech,  expreffing  by  one  word  what  might,  by  a  cir- 
cumlocution, be  refolved  into  two  or  more  words  be- 
longing to  other  parts  of  fpeech.  "  Here,"  for  in- 
ftance,  is  the  fame  with  "  in  this  place."  Hence  ad- 
verbs feem  to  be  lefs  neceflary,  and  of  later  introduc- 
tion into  fpeech,  than  feveral  other  clafTes  of  words  ; 
and  accordingly  mod  of  them  are  derived  from  other 
words,  formerly  eftablifhed  in  the  language. 

Prepofitions  and  conjunctions  ferve  to  exprefs  the 
relations  which  things  bear  to  one  another,  their  mu- 
tual influence,  dependence,  and  coherence  5  and  fo  to 


52  ENGLISH    TONGUE. 

join  words  together,  as  to  form  intelligible  propofitions* 
Conjunctions  are  commonly  employed  for  connecting 
fentences,  or  members  of  fentences  *,  as,  and,  becaufe, 
and  the  like.  Prepofitions  are  ufed  for  connecting 
words  •,  as,  of,  from,  to,  &x.  The  beauty  and  ftrength 
of  every  language  depend  in  a  great  meafure  on  a 
proper  ufe  of  conjunctions,  prepositions,  and  thofe 
relative  pronouns,  which  ferve  the  fame  purpofe  uf 
eonneding  different  parts  of  difcourfe. 

Having  thus  briefly  confidered  the  Structure  o£ 
Language  in  general,  we  will  now  enter  more  particu* 
larly  into  an  examination  of  our  own  Language. 

The  Englifb,  which  was  fpoken  after  the  Norman 
Conqueft,  and  continues  to  be  fpoken  now,  is  a  mix- 
ture of  the  ancient  Saxon  and  the  Norman  French,  to- 
gether with  fuch  new  and  foreign,  words,  as  commerce 
and  learning  have,  in  a  fucceflion  of  ages,  gradually 
introduced.  From  the  influx  of  fo  many  dreams, 
from'  a  junction  of  fo  many  diffimilar  parts,  it  natur- 
ally follows,  that  the  Englifh,  like  every,  compounded 
language,  mult  be  fomewhat  irregular.  We  cannot 
cxpeft  from  it  that  complete  analogy  in  ftruelure, 
which  may  be  found  in  thofe  fimpler  languages,  which 
were  formed  within  themfelves,  and  built  on  one 
foundation.  Hence  our  fyntax  is  fhort,  fmce  there  are 
few  marks  in  the  words  themfelves  which  (how  their 
relation  to  each  other,  or  point  out  either  their  con- 
cordance or  their  government  in  a  fentence.  But,  if 
thefe  be  difadvantages  in  a  compound  language,  they 
are  balanced  by  the  advantages  which  attend  it  ;  par- 
ticularly by  the  number  and  variety  of  words  by 
which  fuch  a  language  is  commonly  enriched.  Few 
languages  are  more  copious  than  the   Englifh.     In  all. 


ENGLISH     TONGUE.  53 

grave  fubje£ls  efpecially,  hiftorical,  critical,  political, 
and  moral,  no  complaint  can  juftly  be  made  of  the 
barrennefs  of  our  tongue.  We  are  rich  too  in  the  lan- 
guage of  poetry  ;  our  poetical  ftyle  differs  widely  from 
profe,  not  with  refpe£t  to  numbers  only,  but  in  the 
very  words  themfelves  ;  which  proves  what  a  com- 
pafs  and  variety  of  words  we  can  felecl  and  employ, 
fuited  to  different  occafions*  Herein  we  are  infinite- 
ly fuperior  to  the  French,  whofe  poetical  language,  if 
it  were  not  diftinguifhed  by  rhyme,  would  not  be 
known  to  differ  from  their  ordinary  profe.  Their 
language, .however,  furpaffes  ours  in  expreffing  what- 
ever is  delicate,  gay,  and  amufing.  It  is,  perhaps,  the 
happieft  language  for  converfation  in  the  known 
world  ;  but  for  the  higher  fubje£ts  of.  compofition, 
the  Englifh  is  juftly  confidered  as  far  fuperior  to  it. 

The  flexibility  of  a  language,  or  its  power  of  be- 
coming either  grave  and  itrong,  or  eafy*  and  flowing, 
or  tender  and  gentle,  or  pompous  and  magnificent,  as 
occafions  require;  is  a  quality  of  great  importance 
in  fpeaking  and  writing.  This  depends  on  the  co- 
pioufnefs  of  a  language  ;  the  different  arrangements 
of  which  its  words  are  fufceptible  ;  and  the  variety 
and  beauty  of  the  founds  of  its  words.  The  Greek 
poffeffed  thefe  requifites  in  a  higher  degree  than 
any  other  language.  It  fuperadded  the  graceful  vari~ 
ety  of  its  different  dialects  ;  and  thereby  readily  at- 
fumed  every  kind  of  character,  an  author  could  wifh, 
from  the  mod  fimple  and  familiar,  to  the  moft  majef- 
tic.  The  Latin,  though  very  beautiful,  is  inferior  in 
this  refpeft  to  the  Greek.  It  has  more  of  a  fixed 
character  of  ftatelinefs  and  gravity  •,  and  is  fupported. 
by  a  certain  fenatorial  dignity,  of  which  it  is  difficult 


54  English   tongue; 

for  a  writer  to  diveft  it.  Among  modern  tongues, 
the  Italian  poflefies  much  more  flexibility  than  the 
French  ;  and  feems  to  be  on  the  whole  the  mod  per- 
fe£l  of  all  the  modern  diale£ts  which  have  arifen  out 
of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient.  Our  language,  though 
unequal  to  the  Italian  in  flexibility,  is  not  deftitute 
of  a  confiderable  degree  of  this  quality.  Whoever 
confiders  the  diverfity  of  ftyJe  in  foine  of  our  bell  wri- 
ters, will  difcover  in  our  tongue  fuch  a  circle  of  ex- 
preflion,  fuch  a  power  of  accommodation  to  the  vari- 
ous taftes  of  men,  as  redounds  much  to  its  honour. 

Our  language  has  been  thought  to  be  very  deficient 
in  harmony  of  found  ;  yet  the  melody  of  its  verifica- 
tion, its  power  of  fupporting  poetical  numbers,  with- 
out the  affiftance  of  rhyme,  is  a  fufficient  proof,  that 
it  is  far  from  being  unharmonious.  Even  the  hiding 
found,  of  which  it  has  been  accufed,  obtains  lefs  fre- 
quently, than  has  been  fufpe&ed.  For  in  many 
words,  and  in  the  final  fyllables  efpecially,  the  letter 
s  has  the  found  of  %y  which  is  one  of  the  founds  on 
which  the  ear  refts  with  pleafure  ;  as  in  has,  thefs, 
ioves,  hears,    &c. 

It  mull  however  be  admitted,  that  fmoothnefs  is 
not  the  diftinguifhing  property  of  the  Englifh  tongue. 
Strength  and  expreffivenefs,  rather  than  grace  and  mel- 
ody, conflitute  its  character.  It  pofiefTes  alfo  the  prop- 
erty of  being  the  moftfimple  of  all  the  European  dialeds- 
in  its  form  and  confiru£lion.  It  is  free  from  the  intrica- 
cy of  cafes,  declenfiens,  modes,  and  tenfes.  Its  words 
are  fubjeft  to  fewer  variations  from  their  original  form, 
than  thofe  of  any  other  language.  Its  nouns  have  no 
diftin£tion  of  gender,  except  what  is  made  by  nature  \ 
and  but  one  variation  in  cafe.  Its  adje£Hves  admit 
no   change,    except  what  exprefies   the  degree    of 


ENGLISH     TONCUE".  $J 

comparifon.  Its  verbs,  inftcad  of  the  varieties  of  an- 
cient conjugation,  admit  only  four  or  five  changes  in? 
termination.  A  few  prepofitions  and  auxiliary  verbs 
cfTe£r,  all  the  purpoies  of  fignificancy  ;  while  the 
principal  words  for  the  mod  part  preferve  their  form 
unaltered.  Hence  our  language  acquires  a  fimplicity 
and  facility,  which  are  the  caufe  of  its  being  frequent- 
ly written  and  fpoken  with  inaccuracy.  We  imag-*- 
ine  that  a  competent  fkill  in  it  may  be  acquired  with- 
out any  ftudy  ;  and  that  in  a  fyntax  fo  narrow  and 
limited  as  ours,  there  is  nothing  which  requires  at- 
tention. But  the  fundamental  rules  of  fyntax  are 
common  to  the  Englim  and  to  the  ancient  tongues  *9 
and  regard  to  them  is  absolutely  requifite  for  writing 
or   fpeaking  with  propriety. 

Whatever  be  the  advantages  or  defects  of  our  lan- 
guage, it  certainly  deferves,  in  the  higheft  degree,  our 
ftudy  and  attention.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  in  the 
meridian  of  their  glory,  beftowed  the  higheft  cultivation- 
on  their  refpeclive  languages.  The  French  and  Italians 
have  employed  much  ftudy  upon  theirs  *,  and  their  ex- 
ample is  worthy  of  imitation.  For,  whatever  knowl- 
edge may  be  gained  by  the  ftudy  of  other  languages, 
it  can  never  be  communicated  with  advantage,  unlefs 
by  thofe  who  can  write  and  fpeak  their  own  language 
with  propriety.  Let  the  matter  of  an  author  be  ever 
fo  good  and  ufeful,  his  compofitions  will  always  furTer 
in  the  public  efteem,  if  his  expreflion  be  deficient  in 
purity  or  propriety.  At  the  fame  time,  the  attainment 
of  a  correct  and  elegant  ftyle  is  an  object  which  de- 
mands application  and  labour.  If  any  onefuppofe  he 
can  catch  it  merely  by  the  ear,  or  acquire  it  by  a 
perufal  of  feme  of  our  good  authors,  he  will  be  much 
difappointed.      The   many   grammatical  errors,   the 


56  STYLE,   PERSPICUITY,   AND  PRECISION,* 

many  impure  expreffions,  which  are  found  in  authors 
who  are  far  from  being  contemptible,  demonftrate 
that  a  careful  ftudy  of  our  language  is  previoufly 
requifite  for  writing  it  with  propriety,  purity,  and 
elegance. 


STYLE,  PERSPICUITY,.  AND  PRECISION; 

OTYLE  is  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  a  marr 
exprefTes  his  thoughts  by  words.  It  is  a  picture  of 
the  ideas  in  his  mind,  and  of  the  order  in  which^ 
they  there  exift.. 

The  qualities  of  a  good  ftyle  may  be  ranged  under' 
two  heads,  perfpicuity  and  ornament.     It  will  readily 
be  admitted,  that  perfpicuity  is  the  fundamental  qual- 
ity of  a  good  ftyle.     Without  this,  the  brighteft  orna- 
ments   only  glimmer   through  the  dark,  and  perplex, 
inftead  of  pleating  the  reader;     If  we  be  forced  to  fol- 
low a  writer  with  much  care;  to  paufe,  and  to    read 
over  his  fentences  a  fecond  time,  in  order  to  underftand^ 
them  fully,  he  will  not  pleafe  us  long!     Men  are  too* 
indolent  to  relifh  fo  much  labour.     Though  they  may 
pretend  to  admire  an  author's  depth,  after  they  have 
difcovered  his  meaning,  they  will  feldom  be  inclined  t 
to  look  a  fecond" time  into  his  book*. 

Perfpicuity  requires  attention   firft  to  fingle  words 
and  phrafes,  and  then  to  the  conftruction  of  fentences. 
When   confidered  with  refpedl  to  words  and  phrafes, . 
it  requires  thefe  three  qualities,  purity,  propriety,  and 
precifion. 

Purity  and  propriety  of  language   are  often  ufed 
indifcriminately  for  each  other  j  and  indeed  they  are 


STYLE,   PERSPICUITY,    AND   PRECISION.  57 

very  nearly  -allied.  A  diftin£tion,  however,  obtains 
between  them.  Purity  is  the  ufe  of  fuch  words  and 
conftruQions  as  belong  to  the  idiom  of  a  particu- 
lar language,  in  oppofition  to  words  and  phrafes 
which  are  imported  from  other  languages,  or 
which  are  obfolete,  or  newly  coined,  or  employed 
without  proper  authority.  Propriety  is  the  choice 
of  fuch  words  as  the  beft  and  mod  eftablifhed  ufage 
has  appropriated  to  thofe  ideas  which  we  intend 
to  exprefs  by  them.  It  implies  a  corre£t  and  hap- 
py application  of  them,  in  oppofition  to  vulgar  or 
low  expreffions,  and  to  words  and  phrafes  lefe  (ignifi- 
cant  of  the  ideas  we  intend  to  convey.  Style  may- 
be pure,  that  is,  it  may  be  ftrictiy  Engiifh  without 
ScotticifmsorGa!lieifms,or  ungrammatical  expreffions- 
of  any  kind,  and. yet  be  deficient  in  propriety.  The 
words  may  be  illy  feledted  ;  not  adapted  to  the  fub- 
ject,  nor  fully  expreffive  of  the  author's  meaning. 
He  took  them  indeed  from  the  general  mafs  of  Eng~ 
lifh  words  ;  but  his  choice  was  made  without  (kill. 
But  ftyle  cannot  be  proper  without  being  pure  \  it  is 
the  union  of  purity  and  propriety,  which  renders  it 
graceful  and  perfpicuous. 

The  exa£t  meaning  of  precifion  may  be  learnt  from 
the  etymology  of  the  word.  It  is  derived  from  u  pra-~ 
"  cidere?  to  cut  ofF  y  and  fignifies  retrenching  all  fu- 
perfluities,  and  pruning  the  expreffion  in  fuch  manner, 
as  to  exhibit  neither  more  nor  lefs  than  the  ideas 
intended  to  be  conveyed. 

Words,  employed  to  exprefs  ideas,  may  be  faulty 
in  three  refpe&s.  They  may  either  not  exprefs  the 
ideas  which  the  author  means,  but  fome  others  which 
are  only  related  ,  or  they  may  exprefs  thofe  ideas*  but 


5  8  STYLE,    PERSPICUITY,    AND   PRECISION 

not  completely  ;  or  they  may  exprefs  them  together 
with  fomething  more  than  he  intends.  Preciilon  is 
oppofed  to  thefe  three  faults  \  but  particularly  to  the 
la  ft,  into  which  feeble  writers-  are  very  apt  to  fall. 
They  employ  a  multitude  of  words  to  make  them- 
feives  underftood,  as  they  think,  more  diftmcT;- 
ly  \  but  they  only  confound  the  reader.  The 
image,  as  they  place  it  before  you,  is  always  feen 
double.  When  an  author  tells  us  of  his  hero's 
courage  in  the  day  of  battle  ;  the  expreflkm  is  precife, 
and  we  underftand  it  fully.  Butlf,  from  a  defire  of 
multiplying,  words,  he  praife  his  courage  and  fortitude  ; 
at  the  moment  he  joins  thefe  words  together,  our- 
idea  begins  to  waver.  He  intends  to  exprefs  one 
quality  more  ftrongly  ;  but  he  is  in  fact  expreffing 
two.  Courage  refills  danger  y  fortitude  fupports  pain. 
The  occasions  of  exerting  thefe  qualities  are  different ; 
and,  being  led  to  think  of  both  together,  when  only 
one  of  them  mould  engage  attention,  our  view  is  ren- 
dered unfteady,  and  our  conception  of  the  object: 
indiftinct.. 

The  great  fource  of  a  loofe  ftyle,  the  oppofite  of 
precifion,  is  the  injudicious  ufe  of  words,  called  fynon- 
imous.  Scarcely  in  any  language  are  there  two  words 
that  convey  precifely  the  fame  idea ;  and  a  perfon, 
perfectly  acquainted  with  the  propriety  of  the  lan- 
guage, will  always  be  able  to  obferve  fomething  by 
which  they  are  diftinguifhed.  In  our  language  many 
inftances  may  be  given  of  difference  in  meaning  among 
words,  reputed  fynonimous  •,  and,  as  the  fubject  is 
important,  we  mall  point  out  a  few  of  them. 

Surprifed}  afloni/Ioedy  amazed,  confounded.  "We  are 
furprifed  at  what  is  new  or  unexpected  ;  we  are  aC- 
tonifhed  at  what  is  vaft  or  great  -,  we  are  amazed  at 


STYLE,    PERSPICUITY,    AND    PRECISION.  59 

*?hat  is  incomprehenfible  ;  we  are  confounded  by 
what  is  (hocking  or  terrible. 

Pride,  vanity.  Pride  makes  us  efteem  ourfelves  5 
-vanity  makes  us  defire  the  efteem  of  others. 

Haughtinefs,  difdain.  Haughtinefs  is  founded  on  a 
high  opinion  of  ourfelves  \  difdain  on  a  low  opinion 
of  others. 

To  weary,  to  fatigue.  Continuance  of  the  fame  thing 
wearies  us  ;  labour  fatigues  us.  A  man  is  wearied 
by  {landing  •,  he  is  fatigued  by  walking. 

To  abhor,  to  deteft.  To  abhor  imports  fimply  ftrong 
diflike  ;  to  deteft  imports  likewife  ftrong  dilapproba- 
tion.     We  abhor  being  in  debt  \  we  deteft  treachery. 

To  invent,  to  dif cover.  We  invent  things  which  are 
new  ;  we  difcover  what  is  hidden.  Galilseo  invented 
the  telefcope  •,  Harvey  difcovered  the  circulation  of 
the  bfood. 

Entire,  complete.  A  thing  is  entire,  when  it  wants 
none  of  its  parts  ;  complete,  when  it  wants  none  of 
the  appendages  which  belong  to  it.  A  man  may 
occupy  an  entire  houfe  ;  though  he  have  not  one  com- 
plete apartment. 

Enough,  f iff cient.  Enough  relates  to  the  quantity, 
which  we  wifli  to  have  of  a  thing.  Sufficient  relates 
to  the  ufe  that  is  to  be  made  of  it.  Hence  enough 
commonly  fignirles  a  greater* quantity  than  fufficient 
does.  The  covetous  man  never  has  enough  ;  though 
he  has  what  is  fufricient  for  nature. 

Thefe  are  a  few  among  many  inftances  of  words  in 
our  language,  which  by  carelefs  writers  are  apt  to  be 
miftaken  for  fynonimous.  The  more  the  diftin&ion 
in  the  meaning  of  fuch  wo"rds  is  regarded,  the  more 
accurately  and  forcibly  (hall  we  fpeak  and  write. 


(SO  STRUCTURE   OF   SENTENCES. 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 

jnL  PROPER  conftru&ion  of  fentences  is  of 
fuch  importance  in  every  fpecies  of  compofition,  that 
we  cannot  be  too  ftri£fc  or  minute  in  our  attention  to 
it.  For,  whatever  be  the  fubjecT:,  if  the  fentences  be* 
conftru&ed  in  a  clumfy,  perplexed,  or  feeble  manner ; 
the  work  cannot  be  read  with  pieafure,  nor  even  with 
jprofit.  But  by  attention  to  the  rules  which  relate  to 
this  part  of  ftyle,  we  acquire  the  habit  of  expreffing 
ourfelves  with  perfpicuity  and  elegance  ;  and,  if  a  dif- 
order  happen  to  arife  in  fome  of  our  fentences,  we 
immediately  fee  where  it  lies,  and  are  able  to  recti- 
fy it. 

The  properties  mod  eflential  to  a  perfect  fentence 
are  the  four  following.  i.  Clearnefs.  2.  Unity. 
3.    Strength.     4.    Harmony. 

Ambiguity  is  oppcfed  to  clearnefs,  and  arifes  from 
two  caufes  ;  either  from  a  wrong  choice  of  words,  or 
a  wrong  collocation  of  them.  Of  the  choice  of  words, 
as  far  as  regards  perfpicuity,  we  have  already  fpoken. 
Of  the  collocation  of  them  we  are  now  to  treat.  From 
the  nature  of  our  language  a  capital  rule  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  our  fentences  is,  that  words  or  mem- 
bers mod  nearly  related,  mould  be  placed  as  near  to 
each  other  as  poffible,  that  their  mutual  relation  may 
clearly  appear.  This  rule  is  frequently  neglefted  even 
by  good  writers.  A  few  in  (lances  will  fhow  both  its 
importance  and  application. 

In  the  pofition  of  adverbs,  which  are  ufed  to  qualify 
the  Cgnification  of  fomething  which  either  precedes 


STRUCTURE    OF    SENTENCES.  6 1 

cr  follows  them,  a  good  deal  of  nicety  is  to  be  obferv- 
ed.  "  By  greatnefs,"  fays  Addifon,  "  I  do  not  only 
"  mean  the  bulk  of  any  fmgle  objeft,  but  the  large- 
u  nefs  of  a  whole  view."  Here  the  place  of  the  ad- 
verb only  makes  it  limit  the  verb  mean.  "  I  do  not  on- 
"  ly  mean."  The  quefticn  may  then  be  afked,  What 
does  he  more  than  mean  ?  Had  it  been  placed  after 
bulky  dill  it  would  have  been  wrong,  for  it  might  then 
be  a(ked,  "What  is  meant  befide  the  bulk  P  Is  it  the 
colour,  or  any  other  property  ?  Its  proper  place  is  after 
the  word  objeEt :  "  By  greatnefs  I  do  not  mean  the 
"  bulk  of  any  fingle  objeft  only  ;"  for  then,  when  it 
is  afked,  What  docs  he  mean  more  than  the  bulk  of 
a  fingle  objeft  ;  the  anfwer  comes  out  precifely  as  the 
author  intends,  "  the  largenefs  of  a  whole  view." 
"  Theifm,"  fays  Lord  Shaftefbury,  "  can  only  be  oppof- 
11  ed  to  polytheifm  or  atheifm."  It  may  be  afked  then, 
Is  theifm  capable  of  nothing  elfe,  except  being  oppofed 
to  polytheifm  or  atheifm  ?  This  is  what  the  words 
literally  mean  through  the  improper  collocation  of 
only.  He  ought  to  have  faid,  "  Theifm  can  be  oppof* 
"  ed  only  to  polytheifm  or  atheifm."  Inaccuracies  of 
this  kind  occafion  little  ambiguity  in  common  dif- 
courfe,  becaufe  the  tone  and  emphafis,  ufed  by  the 
fpeaker,  generally  make  the  meaning  perfpicuous.  But 
in  writing,  where  a  perfon  fpeaks  to  the  eye,  he  ought 
to  be  more  accurate  ;  and  fo  to  connedl  adverbs  with 
the  words  they  qualify,  that  his  meaning  cannot  be 
miflaken  on  the  firft  infpe&ion. 

When  a  circumftance  is  jnterpofed  in  the  middle 

of  a  fentence,  it  fometimes  requires  attention  to  place 

it   in  fuch  manner  as  to  dived  it  of  all  ambiguity. 

For  inftance,  "  Are  thefe  defigns,"  fays  Lord  BoJing- 

G 


4>2  STRUCTURE   OF    SENTENCES* 

broke,  "  which  any  man,  who  is  born  a  Briton,  in  any 
"  circumftances,  in  any  iituation,  ought  to  be  afhamed 
tl  or  afraid  to  avow  ?"  Here  we  are  in  doubt,  whether 
the  phrafes,  "  in  any  circuinjlancesy  in  anyjituation"  be 
connected  with  "  a  man  born  in  Britain  }"  or  with  that 
man's  "  avowing  his  defigns."  If  the  latter,  as  feems 
mod  likely,  was  intended  to  be  the  meaning,  the  ar- 
rangement ought  to  be  this,  "  Are  thefe  defigns,  which 
"  any  man,  who  is  born  a  Briton,  ought  to  be  alham- 
u  ed  or  afraid  in  any  circumftances,  in  any  fituation, 
u  to  avow  ?w 

Still  more  attention  is  retjuifite  to  a  proper  difpofi- 
tion  of  the  relative  pronouns  iuhoy  which)  what,  nvhqfe ; 
and  of  all  thofe  particles  which  exprefs  the  connex- 
ion of  the  parts  of  fpeech.  As  all  reafoning  depends 
upon  this  connexion,  we  cannot  be  too  accurate  with 
regard  to  it.  A  fmali  error  may  obfcure  the  meaning 
of  a  whole  fentence  •,  and  even  where  the  meaning 
is  apparent,  yet  if  thefe  relatives  be  mifplaced,  we 
always  find  fomething  awkward  and  disjointed  in  the 
ftrufture  of  the  period.  The  following  pafTage  in  Bifli- 
op  Sherlock's  Sermons  will  exemplify  thefe  obferva- 
tions  :  "  It  is  folly  to  pretend  to  arm  ourfelves  againft 
"  the  accidents  of  life,  by  heaping  up  treafures  which 
H  nothing  can  prote£l  us  againft,  but  the  good  provi- 
<c  dence  of  our  heavenly  Father."  Which  grammatic- 
ally refers  to  the  immediately  preceding  noun,  which 
here  is  "  treafures  ;"  and  this  would  convert  the  whole 
period  into  nonfenfe.  The  fentence  mould  have  been 
thus  conftru&ed  :  "  It  is  folly  to  pretend  by  heaping 
"  up  treafures  to  arm  ourfelves  againft  the  accidents 
<c  of  life,  againft  which  nothing  can  proteft  us,  but 
"  the  good  providence  of  our  heavenly  Father**' 


STRUCTURE   OF    SENTENCES.  6j 

We  now  proceed  to  the  fecond  quality  of  a  well  ar- 
ranged fentence,  which  we  termed  its  Unity.  This 
is  a  capital  property.  The  very  nature  of  a  fentence 
implies  one  propofition  to  be  expreffed.  It  may  con- 
fift  of  parts  ;  but  thefe  parts  mud  be  fo  clofely  bound 
together,  as  to  make  an  impreffion  of  one  object  only 
upon  the  mind. 

To  preferve  this  unity,  we  muft  firft  obferve,  that 
during  the  courfe  of  the  fentence  the  fubjetSfc  mould  be 
changed  as  little  as  poffible.  There  is  generally  in  ev- 
ery  fentence  fome  perfon  or  thing  which  is  the  gov- 
erning word.  This  mould  be  continued  fo,  if  poffible, 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  it.  Should  a  man 
exprefs  hirnfelf  in  this  manner  :  "  After  we  came  to 
"  anchor,  they  put  me  on  more,  where  I  was  faluted 
"  by  all  my  friends,  who  received  me  with  the  great- 
m  eft  kindnefs" — Though  the  objects  in  this  fentence 
are  fufficiently  connected ;  yet,  by  fhifting  fo  often 
the  fubjeel:  and  perfon,  ive,  they,  J,  and  ivho>  they  ap- 
pear in  fo  difunited  a  view,  that  the  fenfe  and  connex- 
ion are  nearly  loft.  The  fentence  is  reftored  to  its 
proper  unity  by  conftrufting  it  thus  :  u  Having  come 
"  to  anchor,  I  was  put  on  (bore,  where  I  was  faluted 
"  by  all  my  friends,  who  received  me  with  the  great- 
"  eft  kindnefs." 

The  fecond  rule  is,  never  crowd  into  one  fentence 
ideas,  which  have  fo  little  connexion,  that  they  might 
well  be  divided  into  two  or  more  fentences.  Violation 
of  this  rule  never  fails  to  difpleafe  a  reader.  Its  effect 
indeed  is  fo  difgufting,  that  of  the  two  it  is  the  fafeft 
extreme,  to  err  rather  by  too  many  (hort  fentences, 
than  by  one,  that  is  overloaded  and  confufed.  The 
following  fentence  from  a  tranflation  of  Plutarch  will 


64  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES- 

juftify  this  opinion  :  "  Their  march,"  fays  the  author, 
fpeaking  of  the  Greeks,  "  was  through  an  uncultivat- 
<c  ed  country,  whofe  fa v age  inhabitants  fared  hardly, 
"  having  no  other  riches  than  a  breed  of  lean  fheep, 
u  whofe  flefli  v/as  rank  and  unfavouryby  reafon  of  their 
"  continual  feeding  upon  fea-fifh."  Here  the  fubje£i 
is  repeatedly  changed.  The  march  of  the  Greeks,  the 
defcription  of  the  inhabitants,  through  whole  country 
they  paffed,  the  account  of  their  (beep,  and  the  reafon 
of  their  iheep  being  difagreeable  food,  make  a  jumble 
of  objects,  flightly  related  to  each  other,  which  the 
reader  cannot  without  considerable  difficulty  compre- 
hend in  one  view. 

The  third  rule  for  preferving  the  unity  of  a  fentence 
is,  keep  clear  of  parenthefes  in  the  middle  of  it.  Thefe 
may  on  fome  occafions  have  a  fpirited  appearance,  aa 
prompted  by  a  certain  vivacity  of  thought,  which  can 
glance  happily  afide,  as  it  is  going  along.  But  in 
general  their  effecl:  is  extremely  bad  ;  being  a  perplex* 
ed  method  of  difpofing  of  fome  thought,  which  a  wrU 
ter  has  not  art  enough  to  introduce  in  its  proper  place* 
It  is  needlefs  to  produce  any  inflances,  as  they  occur 
fo  frequently  among  incorrect  writers. 

The  fourth  rule  for  the  unity  of  a  fentence  is,  bring 
it  to  a  full  and  perfect  clofe.  It  needs  not  to  be  ob~ 
ferved,  that  an  uniinifhed  fentence  is  no  fentence  with 
refpecT:  to  grammar.  But  fentences  often  occur,  which 
are  more  than  finimed.  When  we  have  arrived  at 
what  we  expected  to  be  the  conclufion  ;  when  we  are 
come  to  the  word,  on  which  the  mind  is  naturally  led 
to  reft  ;  unexpectedly  fome  circumllance  is  added, 
which  ought  to  have  been  omitted,  or  difpofed  of  elfe*. 
where.     Thus,  for  in  dance;  in  the  following  fentence 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.         65 

from  Sir  WilliamTemple,  the  adjeclion  to  trie  fentence 
is  entirely  foreign  to  it.  Speaking  of  Burnet's  Theory 
of  the  Earth,  and  Fontenelle's  Plurality  of  Worlds ; 
*  The  firfl,"  fays  he,  "  could  not  end  his  learned  trea- 
u  tife  without  a  panegyric  of  modern  learning  in  com- 
u  parifon  of  the  ancient ;  and  the  other  falls  fo  grofsly 
u  into  the  cenfure  of  the  old  poetry,  and  preference  of 
"  the  new,  that  I  could  not  read  either  of  thefe  ftrains 
u  without  fome  indignation  •,  which  no  quality  among 
"  men  is  fo  apt  to  raife  in  me,  as  felf  fufficiency." 
The  word  "indignation"  concludes  the  fentence  5  for 
the  Jaft  member  is  added  after  the  proper  clofe. 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 

W  E  now  proceed  to  the  third  quality  of  a 
correct  fentence,  which  we  termed  Strength.  By  this 
is  meant  fuch  a  difpofition  of  the  feveral  words  and 
members  as  will  exhibit  the  fenfe  to  the  bed  advan- 
tage \  as  will  render  the  impreffion,  which  the  period 
is  intended  to  make,  mod  full  and  complete  ;  and 
give  every  word  and  every  member  its  due  weight  and 
force.  To  the  production  of  this  efFect,  perfpicuity 
and  unity  are  absolutely  necefTary  ;  but  more  is 
requifite.  For  a  fentence  may  be  clear  ;  it  may 
alfo  be  compact,  or  have  the  requisite  unity  ;  and 
yet,  by  fome  unfavourable  circumfbnce  in  the  ftruc- 
ture,  it  may  fail  in  that  flrength  or  livelinefs  of  im- 
preffion, which  a  more  happy  collocation  would  pro- 
duce. 

G  * 


66  STRUCTURE    OF    SENTENCES, 

The  firft  rule  for  promoting  the  ftrength  of  a  fen* 
ttncQ  is,  take  from  it  all  redundant  words.  Wh'atev* 
er  can  be  eafily  fupplied  in  the  mind,  is  better  omitted 
in  the  expreffion,  thus,  "  Content  with  deferving  a  tri- 
"  umph>  he  refufed  the  honour  of  it,"  is.  better  than. 
"  being  content  with  deferving  a  triumph,  he  refufed 
"  the  honour  of  it."  It  is  one  of  the  mod  u.feful  exer-* 
cifes,  on  reviewing  what  we  h#ve  written,  to  contract 
that  circuitous  mode  of  expreffion,  and  to  cut  off 
thofe  ufelefs  excrefcences  which  are  ufually  found  in 
a  firft  draught,  But  we  mud  be  cautious  of  prun- 
ing fo  clofely,  as  to  give  a  hardnefs  and  drynefs  to  the 
ftyle.  Some  leaves  rauft  be  left  to  fhelter  and  adorn, 
the  fruit 

As  fentences  fhould  be  cleared  of  fuperfluous  words, 
fo  alfo  of  fuperfluous  members.  Oppofed  to  this  is 
the  fault  we  frequently  meet,  the  laft  member  of  a 
period  being  only  a  repetition  of  the  former  in  a  dif«. 
ferent  drefs.  For  example,  fpeaking  of  beauty,  "  The 
"  very  firft  difcovery  of  it,"  fays  Addifon,  "  ftrikes 
"  the  mind  with  inward  joy,  and  fpreads  delight. 
"  through  all  its  faculties."  In  this  inftance  fcarcely 
?.ny  thing  is  added  by  the  fecond  member  of  the  fen- 
tence  to  what  was  expreffed  in  the  firft.  Though  the 
flowing  ftyle  of  Addifon  may  palliate  fuch  negligence, 
yet  it  is  generally  true,  that  language,  divefted  of  this, 
prolixity,  is  more  ftrong  and  beautiful. 

The  fecond  rule  for  promoting  the  ftrength  of  a, 
fentence  is,  pay  particular  attention  to  the  ufe  of  cop-, 
ulatives,  relatives,  and  particles,  employed  for  tranfi- 
tion  and  connexion.  Some  obfervations  on  this  fub« 
jeCt,  which  appear  ufeful,  Avail  be  mentioned.. 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.         6f 

What  is  termed  fplitting  of  particles,  or  feparating  a 
prepofition  from  the  noun  which  it  governs,  is  ever 
to  be  avoided.  For  example,  "Though  virtue  bor- 
u  rows  no  afliftance  from,  yet  it  may  often  be  ac- 
"  companied  by,  the  advantages  of  fortune."  In  fuch 
inftances  we  fufFer  pain  from  the  violent  feparation  o£ 
two  things,  which  by  nature  are  clofely  united. 

The  ftrength  of  a  fentence  is  much  injured  by  art 
unneceflary  multiplication  of  relative  and  demon- 
ftrative  particles.  If  a  writer  fay,  "  there  is  nothing: 
<c  which  difgufts  me  fooner  than  the  empty  pomp  of 
"  language  •,"  he  exprefles  himfelf  lefs  forcibly,  than 
if  he  had  faid,  "  Nothing  difgufts  me  fooner  than 
"  the  empty  pomp  of  language."  The  former  mode 
of  expreffion  in  the  introduction  of  a  fubject,  or  in 
laying  down  a  propofition,  to  which  particular  atten- 
tion is  demanded,  is  very  proper  •,  but  in  ordinary 
difcourfe  the  latter  is  far  preferable. 

With  regard  to  the  relative  we  fhall  only  obferve, 
that  in  converfation  and  epiftolary  writing  it  may  be 
omitted  ;  but  in  compofitions  of  a  fetious  or  dignified: 
kind  it  fliould  cpnftantly  be  inferted. 

On  the  copulative  particle  andy  which  occurs  fo  of* 
ten,  feveral  obfervations  are  to  be  made.  It  is  evident,, 
that  an  unneceflary  repetition  of  it  enfeebles  ftyle. 
By  omitting  it  we  often  make  a  clofer  connexion,  a 
quicker  fucceilion  of  objects,  than  when  it  is  inferted 
between  them.  "  Verity  vidi>  vici"  exprefles  with 
more  fpirit  the  rapidity  of  conqueft,  than  if  conne£k- 
particles  had  been  ufed.  When,  however,  we. 
wifh  to  prevent  a  quick  transition  from  one  object  to. 
another  ^  and  when  enumerating  objects  which  we 
to  appear  as  diftinct  from  each  other  as  nofli-.. 


88         STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 

ble  ;  copulatives  may  be  multiplied  with  peculiar  ad- 
vantage. Thus  Lord  Bolingbroke  fays  with  proprie- 
ty, "  Such  a  man  might  fall  a  victim  to  power  ;  but 
u  truth,  and  reafon,  and  liberty,  would  fall  with  him." 

The  third  rule  for  promoting  the  ftrength  of  a  fen- 
tence  is,  difpofe  of  the  principal  word  or  words  in  that 
part  of  the  fen  tence,  where  they  will  make  the  mod 
itriking  impreffion.  Perfpicuity  ought  firft  to  be  ftudi- 
ed  ;  and  the  nature  of  our  language  allows  no  great 
liberty  of  collocation.  In  general  the  important  words 
are  placed  at  the  beginning  of  a  fentence.  Thus  Mr. 
Addifon  :  <c  The  pleafures  of  the  imagination,  taken 
M  in  their  full  extent,  are  not  fo  grofs  as  thofe  of 
"  fenfe  •,.  nor  fo  refined  as  thofe  of  the  underftand- 
"  ing."  This  order  feems  to  be  the  moft  plain  and 
natural.  Sometimes,  however,  when  we  propofe  giv- 
ing weight  to  a  fentence,  it  is  ufeful  to  fufpend  the 
meaning  a  little,  and  then  to  bring  it  out  fully  at  the 
clofe.  "  Thus,"  fays  Pope,  "  on  whatever  fide  we 
"  contemplate  Homer,  what  principally  ftrikes  us,  is 
u  his  wonderful  invention." 

The  fourth  rule  for  promoting  the  ftrength  of  fen<- 
tences  is,  make  the  members  of  them  go  on  rifing  in 
their  importance  one  above  another.  This  kind  of  ar- 
rangement is  called  a  climax,  and  is  ever  regarded  as 
a  beauty  in  compofition.  Why  it  pleafes  is  fufhcient- 
Iy  evident.  In  all  things  we  love  to  advance  to  what 
is  more  and  more  beautiful  rather  than  to  follow  a 
retrograde  order,  Having  viewed  fome  confiderable 
object,  we  cannot  without  pain  defcend  to  an  infe- 
rior circumftance.  "  Cavendum  eft>"  fays  Quintilian^ 
u  ne  deer ef cat  oratio%  et  fcrtior  fubjungatur  aliquid  infir- 
**  tnius"     A  weaker  affertion  fhould  never  follow. a. 


STRUCTURE   OF    SENTENCES.  6f 

ftronger  one  ;  and,  when  a  fentence  confifls  of  two 
members,  the  longed  mould  in  general  be  the  con- 
cluding one.  Periods,  thus  divided,  are  pronounced 
more  eafily  ;  and,  the  fhorted  member  being  placed 
firft,  we  carry  it  more  readily  in  our  memory,  as  we 
proceed  to  the  fecond,  and  fee  the  connexion  of  the 
two  more  clearly.  Thus  to  fay,  "  When  our  paflions 
"  have  forfaken  us,  we  flatter  ourfelves  with  the  belief 
11  that  we  have  forfaken  them,"  is  both  more  grace- 
ful and  more  perfpicuous,  than  to  begin  with  the 
longed  part  of  the  propofition  ;  "  We  flatter  our,- 
"  feives  with  the  belief  that  we  have  forfaken  our  paf- 
"  fions,  when  th^y  have  forfaken  us," 

The  fifth  rule  for  condru&ing  fentences  with 
ftrength  is,  avoid  concluding  them  with  an  adverb,  a 
prepofition,  or  any  infignificant  word.  By  fuch  con- 
clufions  dyle  is  always  weakened  and  degraded.  Some- 
times, indeed,  where  the  drefs  and  fignificancy  reft 
chiefly  upon  words  of  this  kind,  they  ought  to  have 
the  principal  place  allotted  them.  No  fault,  for  ex- 
ample, can  be  found  with  this  fentence  of  Boling- 
broke  :  c<  In  their  profperity  my  friends  (hall  never 
f<  hear  of  me  5  in  their  adverfity  always  ;"  where 
never  and  always,  being  emphatical  words,  are  fo  plac- 
ed as  to  make  a  drong  impreihon.  But,  when  thefe 
inferior  parts  of  fpeech  are  introduced,  as  circum- 
dances,  or  as  qualifications  of  more  important  words, 
they  fliould  always  be  difpofed  of  in  the  lead  confpic- 
uous  parts  of  the  period. 

We  fliould  always  avoid  concluding  a  fentence  or 
member  with  any  of  thofe  particles  which  diftinguilh 
the  cafes  of  nouns  ;  as,  of,  to,  from,  ivith,  by.  Thus 
it  is  much  better  to  fay,  "  Avarice  is  a  crime,  of  which 


JO  STRUCTURE    OF    SENTENCES. 

u  wife  meo  are  often  guilty,"  than  to  fay,  c<  Avarice 
"  is  a  crime  which  wife  men  are  often  guilty  of." 
This  is  a  phrafeology  which  all  correct  writers  fhun. 

A  complex  verb,  compounded  of  a  Cm  pie  verb  and 
a  fubfequent  prepofition,  is  alfo  an  ungraceful  con- 
clufion  of  a  period  ;  as,  bring  about,  char  up,  give  over, 
and  many  others  of  the  fame  kind  ;  inflead  of  which,. 
if  a  fimpie  verb  be  employed,  it  will  terminate  the 
fentence  with  more  flrength.  Even  the  pronoun  it, 
especially  when  joined  with  fome  of  the  prepofitions, 
us,  ivitb  it,  in  it,  to  it,  cannot  without  violation  of 
grace  be  the  conclufion  of  a  fentence.  Any  phrafe, 
which  exprefTes  a  circumftance  only,  cannot  conclude 
a  fentence  without  great  inelegance.  Circumftances 
indeed  are  like  unfhapely  {tones  in  a  building  which, 
try  the  fkill  of  an  artift  where  to  place  them  with 
the  lead  offence.  We  fhould  not  crowd  too  many 
of  them  together  ;  but  rather  interfperfe  them  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  fentence,  joined  with  the  principal 
words  on  which  they  depend.  Thus,  for  inftance, 
when*  Dean  Swift  fays,  "  What  I  had  the  honour  of 
<c  mentioning  to  your  Lordfhip  fome  time  ago  in  con- 
"  verfation,  was  not  a  new  thought  ;"  thefe  two  cir- 
cumftances,^//^ time  ago  and  in  converfation,  which  are 
joined,  would  have  been  better  feparated  thus  : 
"  What  I  had  the  honour  fome  time  ago  of  mention- 
cl  ing  to  your  Lordfhip  in  converfation." 

The  fixth  and  laft  rule  concerning  the  ftrength  of  a- 
fentence  is  this,  in  the  members  of  it,  where  two- 
things  are  compared  or  contrafted  ^  where  either  re- 
femblance  or  oppofition  is  to  be  exprefTed  •,  fome  re- 
femblance  in  the  language  and  conftru&ion  ought  to 
Ue  obferved.     The  following  paffage  from  Pope's  pre- 


HARMONY    OF    SENTENCES.  7  2 

face  to  his  Homer  beautifully  exemplifies  this  rule. 
V  Homer  was  the  greater  genius ;  Virgil  the  better 
"  artift  ;  in  the  one  we  admire  the  man  ->  in  the  other 
u  the  work.  Homer  hurries  us  v/ith  a  commanding 
4i  impetuofity  -,  Virgil  leads  us  with  an  attractive  maj- 
"efty.  Homer  fcatters  with  a  generous  profufion  ; 
"  Virgil  beftows  with  a  careful  magnificence.  Homer, 
€l  like  the  Nile,  pours  out  his  riches  with  a  fudden 
u  overflow  \  Virgil,  like  a  river  in  its  banks,  with  a 
"  conftant  dream.  When  we  look  upon  their  ma- 
u  chines,  Homer  feems  like  his  own  Jupiter  in  his  ter* 
4i  rors,  (baking  Olympus,  fcattering  lightnings,  and  fir- 
11  ing  the  heavens.  Virgil  like  the  fame  power  in  his 
"  benevolence,  counfelling  with  the  gods,  laying  plans 
u  for  empires,  and  ordering  his  whole  creation."  Peri- 
ods, thus  conftru6led,  when  introduced  with  propriety, 
and  not  too  frequently  repeated,  have  a  fenfible  beau- 
ty. But,  if  fuch  a  conftru&ion  be  aimed  at  in  every 
fentence,  it  betrays  into  a  diiagreeable  uniformity, 
and  produces  a  regular  jingle  in  the  period,  which 
tires  the  ear,  and  plainly  difcovers  affectation. 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.     HARMONY. 

JliAVING  confidered  fentences  with  regard 
to  their  meaning  under  the  heads  of  Perfpicuity, 
Unity,  and  Strength  ;  we  (hall  now  confider  them 
with  refpefl:  to  their  found. 

In  the  harmony  of  periods  two  things  are  to  be  con- 
fidered. Firft,  agreeable  found  or  modulation  in  gene- 
ral without  any  particular  exprefiion.    Next,  the  found 


+)1  HARMONY   OF    SENTENCES. 

fo  ordered  as  to  become  expreffive  of  the  fenfe.  The 
flrft  is  the  more  common  •,  the  fecond  the  fuperior 
beauty. 

The  beauty  of  mufical  conftru£tion  depends  upon 
the  choice  and  arrangement  of  words.  Thofe  words 
are  mod  pleafing  to  the  ear,  which  are  compofed  of 
fmooth  and  liquid  founds,  in  which  there  is  a  proper 
intermixture  of  vowels  and  confonants  without  too 
many  harfh  confonants,  or  too  many  open  vowels  in 
fuccedion.  Long  words  are  generally  more  pleafing 
to  the  ear  than  monofyllables  ;  and  thofe  are  the  moft 
mufical,  which  are  not  wholly  compofed  of  long  and 
fhort  fyllables,  but  of  an  intermixture  of  them  ;  fuch 
as  delight^  amufe,  velocity,  celerity,  beautiful,  impetuoftty. 
If  the  words,  however,  which  compofe  a  fentence,  be 
ever  fo  well  chofen  and  harmonious ;  yet,  if  they  be 
unfkilfully  arranged,  its  mufic  is  entirely  loft.  As  an 
inilance  of  a  mufical  fentence,  we  may  take  the  fol- 
lowing from  Milton  :  "  We  fhall  condu£l  you  to  a 
11  hill-fide,  laborious  indeed  at  the  firft  afcent ;  but 
"  elfe,  fo  fmooth,  fo  green,  fo  full  of  goodly  profpefts 
"  and  melodious  founds  on  every  fide,  that  the  harp 
"  of  Orpheus  was  not  more  charming.5'  Every  thing 
in  this  fentence  confpires  to  render  it  harmonious. 
The  words  are  well  chofen  •,  laborious,  fmooth,  green, 
goodly,  melodious,  charming  ;  and  fo  happily  arranged, 
that  no  alteration  can  be  made  without  injuring  the 
melody. 

There  are  two  things  on  which  the  mufic  of  a  fen- 
tence principally  depends  ;  thefe  »«re,  the  proper  dif* 
tribution  of  the  feveral  members  of  it,  and  the  clofe 
or  cadence  of  the  whole. 


HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  7J 

Fit  ft,  the  diftribution  of  the  feveral  members  mould 
be  carefully  regarded.     Whatever  is  eafy  to  the  or- 
gans of  fpeech,  is  always  grateful  to  the  ear.     While 
a  period  advances,  the  termination  of  each  member 
forms  a  paufe  in  the  pronunciation  ;  and  thefe  paufes 
fhould  be  fo  diftributed,  as  to  bear  a  certain  mufical 
proportion  to  each  other.     This  will  be  beft  illuftrat- 
cd  by  examples.     "  This  difcourfe  concerning  the  eafi- 
"  nefs  of  God's  commands  does  all  along  fuppofe  and 
u  acknowledge  the  difficulties  of  the  firft  entrance  up- 
€t  on  a  religious  courfe  y  except  only  in  thofe  perfons 
"  who  have  had  the  happinefs  to  be  trained  up  to  relig- 
w  ion  by  the  eafy  and  infenfible  degrees  of  a  pious  and 
u  virtuous  education."     Thisfentence  is  far  from  be- 
ing harmonious  owing  chiefly  to  this,  that  there  is  but 
one  paufe  in  it,  by  which  it  is  divided  into  two  mem- 
bers ;  each  of  which  is  fo  long  as  to  require  a  confid- 
erable  ftretch  of  breath  in  pronouncing  it.     On  the 
contrary,  let  us  obferve  the  grace  of  the  following  paf- 
fage  from  Sir  William  Temple,  in  which  he  fpeaks 
farcaftically  of  man.      "  But,  God  be  thanked,  his 
"  pride  is  greater  than  his  ignorance ;  and,  what  he 
f<  wants  in  knowledge,   he   fupplies    by  fufficiency. 
M  When  he  has  looked  about  him  as  far  as  he  can, 
"  he  concludes  there  is  no  more  to  be  feen  \  when  he 
n  is  at  the  end  of  his  line,  he  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
M  ocean ;  when  he  has  fhot  his  beft,  he  is  fure  none 
"  ever  did,  or  even  can  fhoot  better,  or  beyond  it. 
"  His  own  reafon  he  holds  to  be  the  certain  meafure 
u  of  truth ;  and  his  own  knowledge  of  what  is  poffi- 
ble  in  nature/'     Here  every  thing  is  at  once  eafy  to 
the  breath,  and  grateful  to  the  ear.     We  mud  how- 
H 


G( 


74  HARMONY  OF   SENTENCES. 

ever  obferve,  that  if  compofition  abound  with  fen- 
fences,  which  have  too  many  refts,  and  thefe  placed  at 
intervals  apparently  meafured  and  regular,  it  is  apt  to 
favour  of  afTe&ation. 

The  next  thing  which  demands  attention,  is  the 
clofe  or  cadence  of  the  period.  The  only  important 
rule,  which  can  here  be  given,  is  this,  when  we  aim 
at  dignity  or  elevation,  the  found  fhould  increafe  to 
the  laft  ;  the  .longeft  members  of  the  period,  and  the 
fulleft  and  moft  fonorous  words  mould  be  referved  for 
the  conclufion.  As  an  inftance  of  this,  the  following 
fentence  of  Addifon  may  be  given.  "  It  -fills  the  mind 
"  with  the  largeft  variety  of  ideas  ;  converfes  with  it$ 
u  objects  at  the  greateft  diftance ;  and  continues  the 
€t  longeft  in  action  without  being  tired  or  fatiated  with 
cc  its  proper  enjoyments."  Here  every  reader  muft  be 
fenfible  of  beauty  in  the  juft  diftribution  of  the  paufes, 
and  in  the  manner  of  rounding  the  period,  and  of 
bringing  it  to  a  full  and  harmonious  clofe. 

It  may  be  remarked,  that  little  words  in  the  conclu- 
fion of  a  fentence  are  as  injurious  to  melody,  as  they 
are  inconfiftent  with  ftrength  of  expreftion.  A  mufic- 
al  clofe  in  our  language  feems  in  general  to  require 
either  the  laft  fyllable,  or  the  laft  but  one,  to  be  a  long 
fyllable.  Words  which  confift  chiefly  of  fliort  fylla- 
ties,  as  contrary^  particular •,  rctrofpecl>  feldom  terminate 
a  fentence  harmonioufly,  unlefs  a  previous  run  of  long 
fyllables  have  rendered  them  pieafing  to  the  ear. 

Sentences,  however,  which  are  fo  conftru&ed  as  to 
make  the  found  always  fwell  toward  the  end,  and  reft 
either  on  the  laft  or  penult  fyllable,  give  a  difcourfe  the 
tone  of  declamation.  If  melody  be  not  varied,  the  ear 
is  foon  cloyed  with  it.    Sentences  conftrufted  in  the 


HARMONY   OF    SENTENCES*  75 

fame  manner,  with  the  paufes  at  equal  intervals,  (hould 
never  fucceed  each  other.  Short  fentences  muft  be 
blended  with  long  and  fwelling  ones,  to  render  dit- 
courfe  fprightly  as  well   as  magnificent. 

We  now  proceed  to  treat  of  a  higher  fpecies  of 
harmony  ;  the  found  adapted  to  the  fenfe.  Of  this 
we  may  remark  two  degrees.  Firft,  the  current  of 
found  fuited  to  the  tenor  of  a  difcourfe.  Next,  a  pecu- 
liar refemblance  effected  between  fome  object  and  the 
founds  that  are  employed  in  defcribing  it. 

Sounds  have  in  many  refpecls  an  intimate  corres- 
pondence with  our  ideas  j  partly  natural  partly  pro- 
duced by  artificial  aflbciations.  Hence  any  one  modu- 
lation of  found  continued,  ftamps  on  flyle  a  certain 
character  and  expreflion.  Sentences,  conftructed  with 
Ciceronian  fulnefs,  excite  an  idea  of  what  is  import- 
ant, magnificent,  and  fedate.  But  they  fuit  no  vio- 
lent paflion,  no  eager  reafoning,  no  familiar  addrefs. 
Thefe  require  meafures  briiker,  eafier,  and  often  more 
abrupt.  It  were  as  abfurd  to  write  a  panegyric  and 
an  invective  in  a  flyle  of  the  fame  cadence,  as  to  fet 
the  words  of  a.  tender  love-fong  to  the  tune  of  a  war- 
like march. 

Beiide  the  general  correfpondence  of  the  current  of 
found  with  the  current  of  thought,  a  more  particular 
expreflion  of  certain  objects  by  refembling  founds 
may  be  attempted.  In  poetry  this  refemblance  is 
chiefly  to  be  fought.  It  obtains  fometimes  indeed  in 
profe  competition  ;  but  there  in  an  inferior  degree. 

The  founds  of  words  may  be  employed  for  repre- 
fenting  chiefly  three  clafies  of  objects  5  firft,  other 
founds ;  fecondly,  motions  5  and  thirdly,  the  emotions 
and  paffions  of  the  mind. 


7<J  HARMONY    OF    SENTENCES. 

In  mod  languages  the  names  of  many  particular 
founds  are  fo  formed,  as  to  bear  fome  refemblance  of 
the  found  which  they  fignify  ;  as  with  us  the  whijl- 
ling  of  winds,  the  buzz  and  hum  of  infe£ts,  the  hifs  of 
ferpents,  and  the  crajh  of  falling  timber  ;  and  many 
other  inftances,  where  the  name  is  plainly  adapted  to 
the  found  it  reprefents.  A  remarkable  example  of 
this  beauty  may  be  taken  from  two  paflages  in  Mil-* 
ton's  Paradife  Loft  •,  in  one  of  which  he  defcribes 
the  found,  made  by  the  opening  of  the  gates  of  hell  \ 
in  the  other,  that  made  by  the  opening  of  the  gates 
of  heaven.  The  contrail  between  the  two  exhibits  to 
great  advantage  the  art  of  the  poet.  The  firft  is  the 
opening  of  hell's  gates  •, 


-On  a  fudden  open  fly 


With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  found 
Th'  infetnal  doors  ;  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harlh  thunder. \ 

Obferve  the  fmoothnefs  of  the  other  ; 


-Heaven  open'd  wide 


Her  ever  during  gates,  harmonious  found  I 
On  golden  hinges  turning, 

In  the  fecond  place  the  found  of  words  is  frequent* 
ly  employed  to  imitate  motion  ;  as  it  is  fwift  or 
flow,  violent  or  gentle,  uniform  or  interrupted,  eafy 
or  accompanied  with  effort.  Between  found  and 
motion  there  is  no  natural  affinity  ;  yet  in  the  imag- 
ination there  is  a  ftrong  one  ;  as  is  evident  from  the 
connexion  between  mufic  and  dancing.  The  poet 
can  therefore  give  us  a  lively  idea  of  the  kind  of  mo- 
tion he  would  defcribe,  by  the  help  of  founds  which 


HARMONY   OF    SENTENCES.  77 

in  our  imagination  correfpond  with  that  motion. 
Long  fyllables  naturally  excite  an  idea  of  flow  motion ; 
as  in  this  line  of  Virgil, 

OUi  inter  fefe  magna  vibrachia  toHurit. 

A  fucceflion  of  fhort  fyllables  gives  the  impreflion 
of  quick  motion  ;  as, 

Sed  fugit  interea,  fugit  irreparabile  tempus. 

The  works  of  Homer  and  Virgil  abound  with  in- 
flances  of  this  beauty  j  which  are  fo  often  quoted,  and 
fo  well  known,  that  it  is  unneceflary  to  produce  them. 

The  third  fet  of  obje&s,  which  the  found  of  words  is 
capable  of  representing,  confifts  of  emotions  and  pat 
fions  of  the  mind.  Between  fenfe  and  found  there 
appears  to  be  no  natural  refemblance.  But,  if  the  ar- 
rangement of  fyllables  by  their  found  alone  recal  one 
fet  of  ideas  more  readily  than  another,  and  difpofe 
the  mind  for  entering  into  that  affe&ion  which  the 
poet  intends  to  raife  ;  fuch  arrangement  may  with 
propriety  be  faid  to  refemble  the  fenfe.  Thus,  when 
pleafure,  joy,  and  agreeable  obje&s  are  defcribed  by- 
one  who  feels  his  fubjeft,  the  language  naturally 
runs  in  fmooth,  liquid,  and  flowing  numbers* 


-Namquc  ipfa  decoram 


Caefariem  nato  genetrix,  lumenque  juventas 
Purpureura,  et  hetos  oculis  afflarat  honores. 

Brifk  and  lively  fenfations  exaft  quicker  and  more 
animated  numbers. 

Juvenum  manus  emicat  ardens 
Littus  in  Hcfperium. 

H   2 


7*  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE 

Melancholy  and  gloomy  fubje&s  are  naturally  coiv- 
ne£ted  with  flow  meafures  and  long  words. 

In  thofe  deep  folitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Where  heavenly  penfive  contemplation  dwells. 

Abundant  inftances  of  this  kind  are  fuggefted  by  a 
moderate  acquaintance  with  good  poets,  either  ancient 
©r  modern. 


ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  FIGURATIVE 
LANGUAGE, 

jC  IGURES  may  be  defcribed  to  be  that  language 
which  is  prompted  either  by  the  imagination  or  paffions. 
They  are  commonly  divided  by  rhetoricians  into  two 
great  clafies,  figures  of  words,  and  figures  of  thought. 
The  former  are  commonly  called  tropes,  and  confift  in 
a  word's  being  ufed  to  fignify  fomething  different  from 
its  original  meaning.  Hence,  if  the  word  be  changed, 
the  figure  is  deftroyed.  Thus,  for  inilance,  "  Light 
f<  arifeth  to  the  upright  in  darknefs."  Here  the  trope 
confifts  in  "  light  and  dar|gi£fs"'  not  being  taken  liter- 
ally, but  fubftituted  for  Comfort  and  adverfity  ;  to, 
which  conditions  of  life  they  are  fuppofed  to  bear  fome 
Tefemblance.  The  other  clafs,  termed  figures  of 
thought,  fuppofes  the  figure  to  confift  in  the  fenti- 
ment  only,  while  the  words  are  ufed  in  their  literal 
fenfe  ;  as  in  exclamations,  interrogations,  apoftro- 
phes,  and  comparifons  ;  where,  though,  the  words  be 
varied,  or  translated  from  one  language  into  another, 
the  fame  figure  is  ftill  preferved,     This  diftin£lion 


OF  FIGWRATIVE  IAKGVAGE.  79, 

however  is  of  lmall  importance  -y  as  pra£tice  cannot 
be  aflifted  by  it  ;  nor  is  it  always  very  perfpicuous. 

Tropes  are  derived  in  part  from  the  barrennefs  of 
language  ;  but  principally  from  the  influence,  which 
the  imagination  has  over  all  language.  The  imagina- 
tion never  contemplates  any  one  idea  or  objedl  as  fin- 
gie  and  alone,  but  as  accompanied  by  others  which 
may  be  confidered  as  its  acceflbries.  Thefe  acce (To- 
ries often  operate  more  forcibly  upon  the  mind,  than 
the  principal  idea  itfelf.  They  are  perhaps  in  their 
nature  more  agreeable  ;  or  more  familiar  to  our  con- 
ceptions ;  or  remind  us  of  a  greater  variety  of  import- 
ant circumftances.  Hence  the  name  of  the  acceflciy 
or  correfpondenfe  idea  is  fubitituted  ;  although  the 
principal  has  a  proper  and  well  known  name  of  its 
own.  Thus,  for  example,  when  we  defign  to 
point  out  the  period  in  which  a  (late  enjoyed  molt 
reputation  or  glory,  we  might  eafily  employ  the  prop- 
er words  for  expreffing  this  ^  but  as  this  in  our  imag- 
ination is  readily  conne&ed  with  the  flourifhing  peri- 
od of  $  plant  or  tree,  we  prefer  this  correfpondent 
idea,  ?md  fay,  "  The  Roman  Empire  flourished  mod 
M  under  Auguftus."  The  leader  of  a  fa£Hon  is  a  plain 
expreflion  ;  but,  becaufe  the  head  is  the  principal  part 
©f  the  human  body,  and  is  fuppofed  to  direct  all  the 
animal  operations  \  reding  on  this  refemblance,  we 
fay,  "  Catiline  was  the  head  of  his  party." 

We  fhali  now  examine,  why  tropes  and  figures  con- 
tribute to  the  beauty  and  grace  of  flyle.  By  them  Jan« 
guage  is  enriched,  and  made^ore  copious.  Hence 
words  and  phrafes  are  multiplied  for  expreffing  all 
forts  of  ideas  ;  for  defcribing  even  the  fmalleft  differ- 
ences t    the  niceft  (hades   and  colours  of  thought  3 


80  ORIGIN   AND   NATURE 

which  by  proper  words  alone  cannot  poffibly  be  ex- 
preffed.  They  alfo  give  dignity  to  ftyle,  which  is  de- 
graded by  the  familiarity  of  common  words.  Figures 
have  the  fame  effect  on  language,  that  a  rich  and 
fplendid  apparel  has  on  a  perfon  of  rank  and  dignity. 
In  profe  compofitions  afliftance  of  this  kind  is  often 
requifite  \  to  poetry  it  is  effential.  To  fay,  "  the  fun 
"  rifes,"  is  common  and  trite  ;  but  it  becomes  a  mag* 
nificent  image,  as  exprefled  by  Thomfon  : 

But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day 
Rejoicing  in  the  eafh 

Figures  furnim  the  pleafure  of  enjoying  two  obje£ts> 
prefented  at  the  fame  time  to  our  view,  without  con- 
fufion  ;  the  principal  idea  together  with  its  acceffory, 
which  gives  it  the  figurative  appearance.  When,  for 
example,  inftead  of  "  youth,"  we  fay,  "  the  morning 
14  of  life  •"  the  fancy  is  inftantly  entertained  with  all 
the  correfponding  circumftances  between  thefe  two 
objects.  At  the  fame  inftant  we  behold  a  certain  pe- 
riod of  human  life,  and  a  certain  time  of  the  day  fo 
connected,  that  the  imagination  plays  between  them 
with  delight,  and  views  at  once  two  fimilar  obje£t& 
without  embarraffment. 

Figures  are  alfo  attended  with  the  additional  advan- 
tage of  giving  us  a  more  clear  and  ftriking  view  of 
the  principal  object,  than  if  it  were  exprefled  in  Am- 
ple terms,  and  freed  from  its  acceffory  idea.  They 
exhibit  the  object,  on  which  they  are  employed,  in  a 
pi£lurefque  form  ;  they  render  an  abftracl  conception 
in  feme  degree  an  object  of  fenfe  ;  they  furround  it 
with  circumftances,  which  enable  the  mind  to  lay  hold 
of  it  fteadily,  and  to  contemplate  it  fully.    By  a  well 


©F  HGURATIVE  LANGUAGE*  $5 

adapted  figure,  even  convi£tiort  is  aflifted,  and  a  truth 
is  imprefled  upon  the  mind  with  additional  livelinefs 
and  force.  Thus  in  the  following  pafiage  of  Dr. 
Young  :  "  When  we  dip  too  deep  in  pleafure,  we 
"  always  ftir  a  fediment,  that  renders  it  impure  and 
"  noxious."  When  an  image  prefents  fuch  a  refem- 
blance  between  a  moral  and  fenfible  idea,  it  ferves  like 
an  argument  from  analogy,  to  enforce  what  the  au- 
thor advances,  and  to  induce  belief. 

All  tropes  being  founded  on  the  relation  which 
one  obje£t  bears  to  another,  the  name  of  the  one  may 
be  fubftituted  for  that  of  the  other  -9  and  by  this  the 
vivacity  of  the  idea  is  generally  increafed.  The  rela- 
tion between  a  caufe  and  its  effecT:  is  one  of  the  firfl: 
and  mod  obvious.  Hence  the  caufe  is  fometimes  fig- 
uratively put  for  the  effect.  Thus  Mr.  Addifon,  wriu 
ing  of  Italy,  fays, 

Bloflbms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers  together  rife,, 
And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confufion  lies* 

Here  the  "  whole  year"  is  plainly  meant  to  fignify 
the  productions  of  the  year.  The  efFecT:  is  alfo  often 
put  for  the  caufe  ;  as  "  grey  hairs"  for  "  old  age," 
which  produces  grey  hairs  ;  and  "  made"  for  the 
u  trees,"  which  caufe  the  (hade.  The  relation  be- 
tween the  container  and  the  thing  contained  is  fo  in- 
timate and  apparent,  as  naturally  to  give  rife  to  tropes* 


-Me  irapiger  haufit 


Spumantero  pateram,  et  pleno  fe  proluit  anro. 

Where  it  is  obvious,  that  the  cup  and  gold  are  put 
for  the  liquor,  contained  in  the  golden  cup.  The 
name  of  a  country  is  often  ufed  to  fignify  its  inhabit- 


3  2  ORIGIN   OF   NATURE,  &C- 

ants.  To  pray  for  the  affiftance  of  Heaven  is  the  fame" 
with  praying  for  the  affiftance  of  God,  who  is  in  heav- 
en. The  relation  between  a  fi gn  and  the  thing  figni* 
fied  is  another  fource  of  tropes.     Thus,  - 

Cedant  arma  togas  ;  concedat  laurca  linguae. 

Here  the  "  toga,"  which  is  the  badge  of  the  civil 
profeffions,  and  the  "  laurel,"  that  of  military  honours, 
are  each  of  them- put  for  the  civil  and  military  charac- 
ters them  felves.  Tropes,  founded  on  thefe  feveral  re- 
lations of  caufe  and  effecT:,  container  and  contained^ 
fign  and  thing  fignified,  are  called  by  the  name  of  me- 
tonomy. 

When  a  trope  is  founded  on  the  relation  between 
an  antecedent  and  its  consequent,  it  is  called  a  meta- 
lepfis  j  as  in-  the  Roman  phrafe,  "  futt,"  or  M  vixitV* 
to  fignify  that  one  was  dead.  "  Fuit  Ilium  et  ingens 
c<  gloria  Teucrum"  exprefles  that  the  glory  of  Trojr 
is  no  more. 

When  the  whole  is  put  for  a  part,  or  a  part  for  the 
whole  ;  a  genus  for  a  fpecies,  or  a  fpecies  for  a  genus  ; 
the  fingular  number  for  the  plural,  or  the  plural  for 
the  fingular  ;  in  general,  when  any  thing  lefs,  or  any 
thing  more,  is  put  for  the  precife  object  meant ;  the 
figure  is  then  termed  a  Synecdoche.  We  lay,  for  in- 
ftance,  "  A  fleet  of  fo  many  fail"  inftead  of  fo  many 
u  fhips  j"  we  frequently  ufe  the  "  head"  for  the  "  per- 
"  fon,"  the  "  pole"  for  the  "  earth,"  the  "  waves"  for 
the  "Tea."  An  attribute  is  often  ufed  for  its  fubjecl: ; 
as,  "  youth  and  beauty"  for  the  "  young  and  beautiful^" 
and  fometimes  a  fubjecl:  for  its  attribute.  But  the  re- 
lation, by  far  the  moft  fruitful  of  tropes,  is  fimilitudeji 
which  is  the  fole  foundation  of  metaphor. 


METAPHOR.  83 


METAPHOR. 


Mi 


ETAPHOR  is  founded  entirely  on  the 
Tefemblance  which  one  obje£t  bears  to  another.  It 
is  therefore  nearly  allied  to  fimile  or  comparifon  ; 
and  is  indeed  a  comparifon  in  an  abridged  form. 
When  we  fay  of  a  great  minifler,  "  he  upholds  the 
u  ftate,  like  a  pillar,  which  fupports  the  weight  of 
u  an  edifice,"  we  evidently  make  a  comparifon ;  but, 
when  we  fay  of  him,  he  is  f<  the  pillar  of  the  ftate/*  it 
becomes  a  metaphor. 

Of  all  the  figures  of  fpeech  none  approaches  fo  near 
to  painting,  as  metaphor.  It  gives  light  and  ftrength 
to  defcription  *,  makes  intellectual  ideas  in  fome  de- 
gree vifible,  by  giving  them  colour,  fubftance  and  fenfi- 
ble  qualities.  To  produce  this  effecl:,  however,  a  del- 
icate hand  is  requifite  ;  for  by  a  little  inaccuracy  we 
may  introduce  confufion  inftead  of  promoting  perfpi- 
cuity.  Several  rules  therefore  muft  be  given  for  the 
proper  management  of  metaphors. 

The  firft  rule  refpecling  metaphors  is,  they  mull  be 
fuited  to  the  nature  of  the  fubjecr. ;  neither  too  numer- 
ous, nor  too  gay,  nor  too  elevated  for  it ;  we  muft 
neither  attempt  to  force  the  fubjecl:  by  the  ufe  of  them 
into  a  degree  of  elevation,  not  congruous  to  it ;  nor 
on  the  contrary  fuffer  it  to  fall  below  its  proper  digni- 
ty. Some  metaphors  are  beautiful  in  poetry,  which 
would  be  unnatural  in  profe ;  fome  are  graceful  in 
orations,  which  would  be  highly  improper  in  hiftoric- 
al  or  philofophical  compofition.  Figures  are  the  drefs 
of  fentiment.  They  mould  confequently  be  adapted 
to  the  ideas  which  they  are  intended  to  adorn. 


$4  METAPHOR. 

The  fecond  rule  refpefls  the  choice  of  obje&s, 
whence  metaphors  are  to  be  drawn.  The  field  for 
figurative  language  is  very  wide.  All  nature  .opens 
her  ftores  and  allows  us  to  co!le£t  them  without  re- 
ftraint.  But  we  muft  beware  of  ufing  fuch  allufions 
as  raife  in  the  mind  difagfeeable,  mean,  low,  or  dirty- 
ideas.  To  render  a  metaphor  perfeft,  it  muft  not  only 
be  apt,  but  pleafing  ;  it  muft  entertain  as  well  as  en- 
lighten. Dryden  therefore  can  hardly  efcape  the  im- 
putation of  a  very  unpardonable  breach  of  delicacy, 
when  he  obferves  to  the  Earl  of  Dorfet,  that  "  fome 
"  bad  poems  carry  their  owners'  marks  about  them  ; 
"  fome  brand  or  other  on  this  buttocky  or  that  ear  $ 
u  that  it  is  notorious  who  are  the  owners  of  the  cattle." 
The  mod  pleafing  metaphors  are  derived  from  the 
frequent  occurrences  of  art  and  nature,  or  from  the 
civil  tranfa&ions  and  cuftoms  of  mankind.  Thus,  how 
expreflive,  yet  at  the  fame  time  how  familiar,  is  the 
image  which  Otway  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Metel- 
lus  in  his  play  of  CaiusMarius,  where  he  calls  Sulpicius 

That  mad  wild  bull,  whom~Marius  lets  loofe 

On  each  occafion,  when  he'd  make  Rome  feel  him, 

To  tofs  our  laws  and  liberties  in  the  air. 

In  the  third  place,  a  metaphor  mould  be  founded  on 
a  refemblance,  which  is  clear  and  finking,  not  far 
fetched,  nor  difficult  to  be  difcovered.  Harfh  or  forc- 
ed metaphors  are  always  difpleafing,  becaufe  they  per- 
plex the  reader,  and  inftead  of  illuftrating  the  thought, 
render  it  intricate  and  confufed.  Thus,  for  inftance, 
Cowley,  fpeaking  of  his  rniftrefs,  exprefies  himfelf  in 
the  following  forced  and  obfcure  verfes  ; 


METAPHOK.  85 

Wo  to  her  ftubborn  heart  ;  if  once  mine  come 

Into  the  felf-fame  room, 
Twill  tear  and  blow  up  all  within, 
Like  a  grenado,  {hot  into  a  magazine. 
Then  fhall  love  keep  the  aflies  and  torn  parts 
Of  both  our  broken  hearts  ; 

Sliall  out  of  both  one  new  one  make  ; 
From  her's  the  alloy,  from  mine  the  metal  take  5 
For  of  her  heart  he  from  the  flames  will  find 
But  little  left  behind  ; 

Mine  only  will  remain  entire  ; 
No  drofs  was  there,  to  perifh  in  the  fire. 

Metaphors,  borrowed  from  any  of  the  fcienees,  ef- 
pecially  from  particular  profeflions,  are  almoft  always 
faulty  by  their  obfcurity. 

In  the  fourth  place,  we  muft  never  jumble  meta* 
phorical  and  plain  language  together ;  never  con(irii£t 
a  period  fo,  that  part  of  it  mull:  be  underftood  meta- 
phorically, part  literally  ;  which  always  produces  con- 
fufion.  The  works  of  OlTian  afford  an  inftance  of  the 
fault  we  are  now  cenfuring.  u  Trothal  werit  forth 
u  with  the  ftream  of  his  people,  but  they  met  a  rock ; 
"  for  Fingal  ftood  unmoved  ;  broken,  they  rolled  back 
u  from  his  fide.  Nor  did  they  roll  in  fafety  \  the 
11  fpear  of  the  king  purfued  their  flight."  The  meta- 
phor at  the  beginning  is  beautiful  ;  the  u  ftream," 
the  "  unmoved  rock,"  the  "  waves  rolling  back  brok- 
"  en,"  are  expreffions  in  the  proper  and  confident  lan- 
guage of  figure  ;  but  in  the  end,  when  we  are  told, 
"  they  did  not  roll  in  fafety,  becaufe  the  fpear  of  the 
u  king  purfued  their  flight,"  the  literal  meaning  is  in- 
judicioufly  mixed  with  the  metaphor  ;  they  are  at  the 
fame  moment  prefented  to  us  as  waves  that  roll>  and 
as  men  that  may  be  purfued  and  wounded  by  a  fpear, 
I 


86 


METAPHOR. 


In  the  fifth  place,  take  care  not  to  make  two  differ- 
ent metaphors  meet  on  the  fame  objcft.  This,  which 
is  called  mixed  metaphor,  is  one  of  the  grofTeft  abufes 
of  this  figure.  Shakefpeare's  expreffion,  for  example, 
<c  to  take  arms  againft  a  fea  of  troubles,"  makes  a  moll 
unnatural  medley,  and  entirely  confounds  the  imagin- 
ation. More  correct  writers  than  Shakefpeare,  are 
fometimes  guilty  of  this  error.  Mr.  Addifon  fays, 
"  There  is  not  a  fingle  view  of  human  nature,  which 
u  is  not  fufricient  to  extinguish  the  feeds  of  pride." 
Here  a  view  is  made  to  extingui/h}  and  to  extinguijb 
feeds. 

In  examining  the  propriety  of  metaphors  it  is  a 
good  rule  to  form  a  pi£ture  of  them,  and  to  confider 
how  the  parts  agree,  and  what  kind  of  figure  the 
whole  prefents,  when  delineated  with  a  pencil. 

Metaphors,  in  the  fixth  place,  fhould  not  be  crowd- 
ed together  on  the  fame  objeft.  Though  each  of  them 
be  diftind,  yet,  if  they  be  heaped  on  one  another, 
they  produce  confufion.  The  following  paffage  from 
Horace  will  exemplify  this  obfervation  : 

Motum  ex  Metello  confule  civlcum 
Bcllique  caufas,  et  vkia,  et  modos, 

iLudumque  fortune,  gravefque 

Principum  amicitias,  et  arma 
Kondum  cxpiatis  uncfta  cruoribus, 
Periculofss  plenum  opus  alese, 

Tracflas,  et  incedis  per  ignes 

Suppofitos  cineri  dolofo. 

This  pafiage,  though  very  poetical,  is  rendered  harfii 
and  obfcure  by  three  diftinft  metaphors  crowded  to- 
gether. Firft,  "  arma  unEla  cruoribus  nondum  expiaiis  •" 
next,  "  opus  plenum  periculofa  alea  "  and  then,  "  ince* 
u  dis per  ignes fuppofttos  cineri  dolofo  " 


ALLEGORY.  87 

The  lad  rule  concerning  metaphors  is,  they  fhould 
not  be  too  far  purfued.  For,  when  the  refemblance, 
which  is  the  foundation  of  the  figure,  is  long  dwelt 
upon,  and  carried  into  all  its  minute  circumftances, 
an  allegory  is  produced  inflead  of  a  metaphor ;  the 
reader  is  wearied,  and  the  difcourfe  becomes  obfcure* 
This  is  termed  draining  a  metaphor.  Dr.  Young, 
whofe  imagination  was  more  difiinguifhed  by  (trength, 
than  delicacy,  is  often  guilty  of  running  down  his  met- 
aphors.    Speaking  of  old  age,  he  fays,  it  fhould 

Walk  thoughtful  on  the  filent,  folemn  fhore 

Of  that  vaft  ocean,  it  muft  fall  fo  foon  ; 

And  put  good  works  on  board  ;  and  wait  the  wind 

That  fhortly  blows  us  into  worlds  unknown. 

The  two  firft  lines  are  uncommonly  beautiful ;  but, 
when  he  continues  the  metaphor  by  "  putting  good 
"  works  on  board,  and  waiting  the  wind,"  it  is  (train- 
ed, and  finks  in  dignity. 

Having  treated  of  metaphor,  we  (hall  conclude  this 
chapter  with  a  few  words  concerning  allegory. 

An  allegory  is  a  continued  metaphor ;  as  it  is  the. 
reprefentation  of  one  thing  by  another  that  refembles 
it.  Thus  Prior  makes  Emma  defcribe  her  conftancjr 
to  Henry  in  the  following  allegorical  manner  : 

Did  I  but  purpcfe  to  embark  with  thee 
On  the  fmooth  furface  of  a  rummer's  fea, 
While  gentle  zephyrs  play  with  profperous  gales, 
And  fortune's  favour  fills  the  f welling  fails; 
But  would  forfake  the  fliip,  and  make  the  iliore, 
When  the  winds  whiffle,  and  the  tempers  roar  r" 

The  fame  rules  that  were  given  for  metaphors,  may 
be  applied  to  allegories  on  account  of  the  affinity  be- 


£S  HYPERBOLE. 

tween  them.  The  only  material  difference  befide  the 
one  being  fhort  and  the  other  prolonged  is,  that  a  met- 
aphor always  explains  itfelf  by  the  words  that  are 
connected  with  it  in  their  proper  and  literal  meaning  ; 
as,  when  we  fay,  "  Achilles  was  a  lion  •*  u  an  able 
w  minifter  is  the  pillar  of  the  date."  Lion  and  pillar 
are  here  lufficiently  interpreted  by  the  mention  of 
Achilles  and  the  minifter,  which-  are  joined  to  them  ; 
but  an  allegory  may  be  allowed  to  ft  and  lefs  conne£l- 
ed  with  the  literal  meaning  ;  the  interpretation  not 
being  fo  plainly  pointed  out,  but  left  to  our  own  re-, 
fle&ion. 


HYPERBOLE. 

JLlYPERBOLE  confifts  in  magnifying  an  oh- 
je&  beyond  its  natural  bounds.  This  figure  occurs 
very  frequently  in  all  languages,  even  in  common  con- 
versation. As  fwift'as  the  wind  ;  as  white  as  fnowj 
and  our  ufual  forms  of  compliment  are  in  general  ex- 
travagant hyperboles.  From  habit,  however,  thefe  ex- 
aggerated expreflions  are  fcldom  confidered,  as  hyper- 
bolical. 

Hyperboles  are  of  two  kinds  ;  fuch  as  are  employ- 
ed in  description,  or  fuch  as  are  fuggefted  by  paflion. 
Thofe  are  far  be  ft  which  are  the  effect  of  paflion  j 
lince  it  not  only  gives  rife  to  the  moil:  daring  figures, 
but  often  renders  them  juft  and  natural.  Hence  the 
following  paffage  in  Milton,  though  extremely  hyper- 
bolical, contains  nothing  but  what  is  natural  and  prop- 


HYPERBOLE.  t$ 

er.     It  exhibits  the  mind  of  Satan  agitated  by  rage 
and  defpair. 

Me  miferable  !  Which  way  fliall  I  fly- 
Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  defpair  ? 
Which  way  I  fly  is  hell  :  myfelf  am  hell : 
And  in  the  lowefl  depth,  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatning  to  devour  me,  opens  wide, 
To  which  the  hell  I  fu/Fer  Teems  a  heaven. 

In  ilmple  description,  hyperboles  mufl  be  employed 
with  more  caution.  When  an  earthquake  or  flormis 
defcribed,  or  when  our  imagination  is  carried  into  the 
midft  of  a  battle,  we  can  bear  flrong  hyperboles  with- 
out difpleafure.  But,  when  only  a  woman  in  grief  is 
prefented  to  our  view,  it  is  impoflible  not  to  be  dif- 
gufted  with  fuch  exaggeration,  as  the  following,  in 
one  of  our  dramatic  poets  : 


►  I  found  her  on  the  floor 


In  all  the  ftorm  of  grief,  yet  beautiful, 

Pouring  forth  tears  at  fuch  a  lavifli  rate, 

That,  were  the  world  on  fire,  they  might  have  drown'd 

The  wrath  of  Heaven,  and  quench'd  the  mighty  ruin. 

This  is  mere  bombafl.  The  perfon  herielf  who  la- 
boured under  the  detracting  agitations  of  grief,  might 
be  permitted  to  exprefs  herfelf  in  flrong  hyperbole  ; 
but  the  fpedator,  who  defcribes  her,  cannot  be  allow- 
ed equal  liberty.  The  juft  boundary  of  this  figure 
cannot  be  afcertained  by  any  precife  rule.  Good  fenfe 
and  an  accurate  tafte  mufl  afcertain  the  limit,  beyond 
which,  if  it  pafs,  it  becomes  extravagant. 

t.i 


$0  PFRSONIFICATION. 


PERSONIFICATION  AND  APOSTROPHE. 

VV  E  proceed  now  to  thofe  figures  which  lie 
altogether  in  the  thought,  the  words  being  taken  in 
their  common  and  literal  fenfe.  We  fhall  begin  with 
perfonification,  by  which  life  and  action  are  attributed 
to  inanimate  objects.  All  poetry,  even  in  its  mod 
humble  form,  abounds  in  this  figure.  From  profe  it 
is  far  from  being  excluded  ;  nay,  even  in  common 
converfation,  frequent  approaches  are  made  to  it. 
When  we  fay,  the  earth  thirjls  for  rain,  or  the  fields, 
Jmile  with  plenty  \  when  ambition  is  faid  to  be  rejllefsj 
or  a  difeafe  to  be  deceitful  \  fuch  expreflions  (how  the 
facility  with  which  the  mind  can  accommodate  the. 
properties  of  living  creatures  to  things  inanimate,  or 
abftradt  conceptions. 

There  are  three  different  degrees  of  this  figure  5 
which  it  is  requifite  to  diftinguifh,  in  order  to  deter- 
mine  the  propriety  of  its  ufe.  The  firfl  is,  when 
fome  of  the  properties  of  living  creatures  are  afcribed 
to  inanimate  objects  \  the  fecond,  when  thofe  inani- 
mate objects  are  defcribed  as  acting  like  fuch  as 
have  life  ;  and  the  third,  when  they  are  exhibited  eith- 
er as  fpeaking  to  us,  or  as  liftening  to  what  we  fay 
to  them. 

The  firft  and  lov/eft  degree  of  this  figure,  which 
con  fills  in  afcribing  to  inanimate  objects  fome  of  the 
qualities  of  living  creatures,  raifes  the  ftyle  fo  little, 
that  the  humbleft  difcourfe  admits  it  without  any 
force.  Thus  "  a  raging  ftorm,  a  deceitful  difeafe,  a 
H  cruel  difafter/'  are  familiar  expreflions.     This  in- 


I 


PERSONIFICATION.  pi 


deed  is  fo  obfeure  a  degree  of  perfonification,  that  it 
might  perhaps  be  properly  clafled  with  fimple  meta- 
phors which  almoft  efcape  our  obfervation. 

The  fecond  degree  of  this  figure  is,  when  we  rep- 
refent  inanimate  objefts  ading  like  thofe  that  have 
life.  Here  we  rife  a  ftep  higher,  and  the  personifica- 
tion becomes  fenfible.  According  to  the  nature  of  the 
action  which  we  afcribe  to  thofe  inanimate  objects, 
and  to  the  particularity  with  which  we  defcribe  it, 
is  the  ftrength  of  the  figure.  When^urfued  to  a  con- 
fiderable  length,  it  belongs  only  to  ftudied  harangues  ; 
when  flightly  touched,  it  may  be  admitted  into  lefs 
elevated  compofitions.  Cicero,  for  example,  Speaking 
of  the  cafes  where  killing  a  man  is  lawful  in  felf* de- 
fence, ufes  the  following  expreffions  :  M  Aliqiiando  no- 
u  bis  giadius  ad  occidendum  heminem  ab  ipfus  porrigitur 
"  legibus"  Here  the  laws  are  beautifully  perfonified 
as  reaching  forth  their  hand  to  give  us  a  fword  for 
putting  a  man  to  death. 

In  poetry,  perfonifications  of  this  kind  are  extreme- 
ly frequent,  and  are  indeed  the  life  and  foul  of  it.  In 
the  defcriptions  of  a  poet,  who  has  a  lively  fancy, 
every  thing  is  animated.  Homer,  the  father  of  poet- 
ry, is  remarkable  for  the  ufe  of  this  figure.  War, 
peace,  darts,  rivers,  every  thing  in  fhort,  is  alive  in  his 
writings.  The  fame  is  true  of  Milton  and  Shakefpeare. 
No  personification  is  more  Striking,  or  introduced  on 
a  more  proper  occafion,  than  the  following  of  Milton 
upon  Eve's  eating  the  forbidden  fruit  : 

So  faying,  her  rafii  hand  in  evil  hoar 
Forth  resching  to  the  fruit,  fhe  pluck'd,  fhe  ate  ! 
Earth  felt  the  wound  ;  and  nature  from  her  feat, 
Sighing  thro'  all  her  works,  gave  iign^  of  wo, 
That  all  was  loft. 


£2  PERSONIFICATION. 

The  third  and  higheft  degree  of  this  figure  is  yet  to 
be  mentioned ;  when  inanimate  objects  are  reprefent* 
ed,  not  only  as  feeling  and  acting,  but  as  fpeaking 
to  us,  or  liftening,  while  we  addrefs  them.  This  is 
die  boldeft  of  all  rhetorical  figures  ;  it  is  the  flyle  of 
ftrong  paffion  only  ;  and  therefore  fliould  never  be 
attempted,  except  when  the  mind  is  confiderably  heat- 
ed and  agitated.  Milton  affords  a  very  beautiful  ex- 
ample of  this  figure  in  that  moving  and  tender  addrefs 
which  Eve  makes  to  Paradife  immediately  before  (he 
is  compelled  to  leave  it. 

Gh,  unexpected  ftroke,  worfe  than  of  death  V 
Muft  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradife  ?  Thus  leave 
Thee,  native  foil  ;  thefe  happy  walks  and  £hades>e 
Fit  haunt  of  gods  ;  where  I  had  hope  to  fpend 
Quiet,  though  fad,  the  refpite  of  that  day, 
"Which  muft  be  mortal  to  us  both  ?  O  flowers! 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  vifitation,  and  my  laft 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  your  firft  opening  buds,  and  gave  you  names  : 
Who  now  fhall  rear  you  to  the  fun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrofial  fount  ? 

This  is  the  real  language  of  nature  and  of  female 
paffion. 

In  the  management  of  this  fort  of  perfonification  two 
rules  are  to  be  obferved.  Firft,  never  attempt  it,  un- 
lefs  prompted  by  ftrong  paffion,  and  never  continue  it 
when  the  paffion  begins  to  fubfide.  The  fecond  rule 
is,  never  perfonify  an  object  which  has  not  fome  dig- 
nity in  itfelf,  and  which  is  incapable  of  making  a  prop- 
er figure  in  the  elevation  to  which  we  raife  it.  To 
addrefs  the  body  of  a  deceafed  friend  is  natural  ;  but 
to  addrefs  the  clothes  which  he  wore,  introduces  low.- 


apostrophe:.  93 

and  degrading  ideas.  So  likewife,  addretTing  the  fev- 
eral  parts  of  the  body,  as  if  they  were  animated,  is  not 
agreeable  to  the  dignity  of  paflion.  For  this  reafon 
the  following  paflage  in  Pope's  Eloifa  to  Abelard  is 
liable  to  cenfure. 

Bear  fatal  name  !   reft  ever  onreveal'cl, 
Nor  pafs  thefe  lips,  in  holy  filence  feal'd. 
Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  clofe  difguife, 
Where,  mix'd  with  God's,  his  lov'd  idea  lies  ;. 
O,  write  it  not,  my  hand  ! — his  name  appears 
Already  written — Wot  it  out,  my  tears. 

Here  the  name  of  Abelard  is  firft  perfonified  y 
which,  as  the  name  of  a  perfon  often  (lands  for  the 
perfon  himfelf3isexpofed  to  no  objection.  Next, Eloifa 
perfonifies  her  own  heart  ;  and,  as  the  heart  is  a  dig- 
nified part  of  the  human  frame,  and  is  often  put  for 
the  mind,  this  alfo  may  pafs  without  cenfure.  But, 
when  (lie  addrefies  her  hand,  and  tells  it  not  to  write 
his  name,  this  is  forced  and  unnatural.  Yet  the  fig- 
ure becomes  dill  worfe,  when  (lie  exhorts  her  tears  to 
blot  out  what  her  hand  had  written.  The  two  laft 
lines  are  indeed  altogether  unfuitable  to  the  tendernefs 
which  breathes  through  the  reft  of  that  inimitable 
poem* 

Apostrophe  Is  an  addrefs  to  a  real  perlbn  ;  but 
one  who  is  either  abfent  or  dead,  as  if  he  were  pre- 
fent,  and  lxftening  to  us..  This  figure  is  in  boldnefs 
a  degree  lower  than  perfonification  ;  fince  it  requires 
Iefs  effort  of  imagination  to  fuppofe  perfons  prefent 
who  are  dead  or  abfent,  than  to  animate  infenfible 
beings,  and  direel  our  difcourfe  to  them.  The  poems 
of  Offian  abound  in  beautiful  inftances  of  this  figure. 


54  COMPARISON, 

u  Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  winds,  O  Maid  of 
"  Iniftore.  Bend  thy  fair  head  over  the  waves,  thou 
"  fairer  than  the  ghoit  of  the  hills,  when  it  moves  in  a 
"  fun-beam  at  noon  over  the  filence  of  Morven.  He  is. 
"  fallen  !  Thy  youth  is  low  •,  pale  beneath  the  fword 
"  of  Cuchuiiin." 


COMPARISON,  ANTITHESIS,  INTERROGA- 
TION,  EXCLAMATION,  AND  OTHER  FIG- 
URES OF  SPEECH. 

A.  COMPARISON  or  fimile  is,  when  the  re- 
femblance  between  two  objects  is  exprefTed  in  form, 
and  ufually  purfued  more  fully  than  the  nature  of  a 
metaphor  admits.  As  when  we  fay,  "  The  actions  of 
"  princes  are  like  thofe  great  rivers,  the  courfe  of 
u  which  every  one  beholds,  but  their  fprings  have  been 
u  feen  by  few."  This  fhort  inftance  will  {how  that  a 
happy  comparifon  is  a  fort  of  fparkling  ornament 
which  adds  luftre  and  beauty  to  difcourfe. 

All  comparifons  may  be  reduced  under  two  heads  *r 
explaining  and  embellifoing  comparifons..  For,  when  a 
writer  compares  an  objecl:  with  any  other  thing,  it  al- 
ways is,  or  ought  to  be,  with  a  view  to  make  us  un- 
derhand that  object;  more  clearly,  or  to  render  it  more 
pleafing.  Even  abftraft  reafoning  admits  explaining 
comparifons.  For  inftance,  the  diftinction  between 
the  powers  of  fenfe  and  imagination  is  in  Mr.  Harris's 
Hermes  illuftrated  by  a  fimile  :  "  As  wax,"  fays  he, 
u  would  not  be  adequate  to  the  purpofe  of  fignature, 
**  if  it  had  not  the  power  to  retain  as  well  as  to  re- 


COMPARISON.  f>  J 

4t  ceive  the  impreffion  ;  the  fame  holds  of  the  foul 
44  with  refpecT:  to  fenfe  and  imagination.  Senfe  is  its 
u  receptive  power,  and  imagination  its  retentive.  Had 
€i  it  fenfe  without  imagination,  it  would  not  be  as  wax, 
w  but  as  water  ;  where,  though  all  impreflions  be  in- 
u  ftantly  made,  yet  as  foon  as  they  are  made,  they  are 
li  loft."  In  comparifons  of  this  kind,  perfpicuity  and 
ufefulnefs  are  chiefly  to  be  fludied. 

But  embellifhing  comparifons  are  thofe  which 
mod  frequently  occur.  Refemblance,  it  has  been 
obferved,  is  the  foundation  of  this  figure.  Yet  re- 
femblance mud  not  be  taken  in  too  flrict.  a  fenfe  for 
actual  fimilitude.  Two  objects  may  raife  a  train  of 
concordant  ideas  in  the  mind,  though  they  refemble 
each  other,  flridtly  fpeaking,  in  nothing.  For  exam- 
ple, to  defcribe  the  nature  of  foft  and  melancholy  mu- 
fic,  Offian  fays,  "  The  mufic  of  Carryl  was,  like  the 
"  memory  of  joys  that  are  paft,  pleafant  and  mourn- 
H  ful  to  the  foul."  This  is  happy  and  delicate  ;  yet 
no  kind  of  mufic  bears  any  refemblance  to  the  mem- 
ory of  paft  joys. 

"We  (hall  now  confider  when  comparifons  may  be  in- 
troduced with  propriety.  Since  they  are  the  language 
of  imagination,  rather  than  of  paffion,  an  author  can 
hardly  commit  a  greater  fault,  than  in  the  midft  of 
paflion  to  introduce  a  fimile.  Our  writers  of  trage- 
dies often  err  in  this  refpecT:.  Thus  Addifon  in  his 
Cato  makes  Fortius,  juft  after  Lucia  had  bid  him  fare- 
well forever,  exprefs  himfelf  in  a  ftudied  comparifon. 

Thus  o'er  ijhe  dying  lamp  the  unfteady  flame 
Hangs  quivering  on  a  point,  leaps  off  by  fits, 
And  falls  again,  as  loth  to  quit  its  hold. 
Thou  mufl  not  go  ;  my  foul  rti.Il  hovers  o'er  thee, 
And  can't  get  loofe. 


$6  COMPARISON. 

As  comparifon  is  not  the  ftyle  of  ftrong  paflion,  foj 
when  defigned  for  embellifhment,  it  is  not  the  lan- 
guage of  a  mind  totally  unmoved.  Being  a  figure  of 
dignity,  it  always  requires  fome  elevation  in  the  fub- 
je£t,  to  make  it  proper.  It  fuppofes  the  imagination 
to  be  enlivened,  though  the  heart  is  not  agitated  by 
paffion.  The  language  of  fimile  lies  in  the  middle 
region  between  the  highly  pathetic  and  the  very  hum- 
ble ftyle.  It  is  however  a  fparkling  ornament  j  and 
muft  confequently  dazzle  and  fatigue,  if  it  recur  too 
often.  Similes  even  in  poetry  (hould  be  employed 
with  moderation  ;  but  in  profe  much  more  fo  ;  oth- 
erwife  the  ftyle  will  become  difguftingly  lufcious,  and 
the  ornament  lofe  its  beauty  and  effe£L 

We  {hall  now  confide?  the  nature  of  thofe  objedls 
fr.om  wThich  comparifons  {hould  be  drawn. 

In  the  firft  place,  they  muft  not  be  drawn  from  things 
which  have  too  near  and  obvious  a  refemblance  of 
the  obje£t  with  which  they  are  compared.  The  pleas- 
ure we  receive  from  the  a&  of  comparing,  arifes 
from  the  difcovery  of  likenefles  among  things  of  dif- 
ferent fpecies,  wrhere  we  fhould  not  at  firft  fight  ex- 
pe£l  a  refemblance. 

But,  in  the  fecond  place,  as  comparifons  ought  not 
to  be  founded  on  likenefles  too  obvious,  much  lefs 
ought  they  to  be  founded  on  thofe  which  are  too  faint 
and  diftant.  Thefe,  inftead  of  affifting,  ftrain  the  fan- 
cy to  comprehend  them,  and  throw  no  light  upon  the 
fuhjeft. 

In  the  third  place,  the  obje&  from  which  a  compar- 
ifon is  drawn,  ought  never  to  be  an  unknown  obje£tf 
nor  one  of  which  few  people  can  have  a  clear  idea. 
Therefore  G miles,   founded  on  philofophical  difcov* 


ANTITHESIS.  97 

series,  or  on  any  thing,  with  which  perfons  of  a  partic- 
ular trade  only,  or  a  particular  profeflion,  are  acquaint- 
ed, produce  not  their  proper  effect.  They  fhould  be 
drawn  from  thofe  illuftrious  and  noted  objects,  which 
moil  readers  have  either  feen,  or  can  ftrongly  conceive. 

In  the  fourth  place,  in  compofitions  of  a  ferious  or 
elevated  kind,  fimiles  fhould  never  be  drawn  from  low 
or  mean  objects.  Thefe  degrade  and  vilify  j  whereas 
fimiles  are  generally  intended  to  ernbellifh  and  dignify. 
Therefore,  except  in  burlefque  writings,  or  where  an 
■object  is  meant  to  be  degraded,  mean  ideas  fhould 
never  be  prefented. 

ANTITHESIS  is  founded  on  the  contrad  or  oppo- 
sition of  two  objedts.  By  contrail,  objects  oppofed 
to  each  other,  appear  in  a  ftronger  light.  Beauty,  for 
inftance,  never  appears  fo  charming  as  when  contrafi- 
ed  with  uglinefs.  Antithesis  therefore  may,  on  many 
occafions,  be  ufed  advantageoufly  to  ftrengthen  the 
impreflion  which  we  propofe  that  any  objedl  fhuuld 
make.  Thus  Cicero,  in  his  oration  for  Milo,  reprcfent- 
ing  the  improbability  of  Milo's  defigning  to  take  away 
the  life  of  Clodius,  when  every  thing  was  unfavorable 
to  fuch  defign,  after  he  had  omitted  many  oppori uni- 
ties of  effecting  fuch  a  purpofe,  heightens  our  convic- 
tion of  this  improbability  by  a  fkilful  ufe  of  this  fig- 
ure. "  ®)uem  igitur  cum  omnium  gratia  interficere  nolti- 
11  it ;  hunc  voluit  cum  aliquorum  querela  P  ®hiem  jurc% 
"  quern  loco,  quern  tempore,  quern  impune,  nm  cjl  unfits  ; 
"  hunc  injuria,  iniquo  loco,  alieno  tempore,  periculo  capitis^ 
<c  non  dubitavit  occidere  ?"  Here  the  antithefis  is  render- 
ed complete  by  the  words  and  members  of  the  fen* 
fence,  exprefling  the  contrafted  objects,  being  fimilar^,* 
iy  conftru&ed,  and  made  to  correfpond  with  each  other. 
K 


J-B  INTERROGATIONS. 

We  mud  however  acknowledge  that  frequent  ufe 
of  antithesis,  efpecially  where  the  oppofition  in  the 
words  is  nice  and  quaint,  is  apt  to  make  ftyle  unpleaf- 
ing.  A  maxim  or  moral  faying  very  properly  receives 
this  form ;  becaufe  it  is  fuppofed  to  be  the  effecT:  of 
meditation,  and  is  dqfigned  to  be  engraven  on  the 
memory,  which  recals  it  more  eafily  by  the  aid  of 
contracted  expreffions.  But,  where  feveral  fuch  fen- 
tences  fucceed  each  other ;  where  this  is  an  author's 
favourite  and  prevailing  mode  of  expreffion  \  his  ftyle 
is  expofed  to  cenfure. 

INTERROGATIONS  and  Exclamations  are  paf- 
fionate  figures.  The  literal  ufe  of  interrogation  is  to 
alk  a  queftion  ;  but,  when  men  are  prompted  by  paf- 
fion,  whatever  they  would  affirm,  or  deny  with  great 
earneftnefs,  they  naturally  put  in  the  form  of  a  quef- 
tion ;  expreffing  thereby  the  firmed  confidence  of  the 
truth  of  their  own  opinion  ;  and  appealing  to  their 
hearers  for  the  impoflibility  of  the  contrary.  Thus 
in  fcripture  ;  "God.  is  not  a  man,  that  he  fhouldlie  ; 
"  nor  the  Son  of  Man,  that  he  fhould  repent.  Hath 
€t  he  faid  it  ?  And  fhall  he  not  do  it  ?  Hath  he  fpoken 
"  it  ?  And  (hall  he  not  make  it  good  ■?" 

Interrogations  may  be  employed  in  the  profecution 
of  clofe  and  earned  reafoning  j,  but  exclamations  be- 
long only  to  ftronger  emotions  of  the  mind  ;  to  fur- 
prife,  anger,  joy,  grief,  and  the  like.  Thefe,  being 
natural  figns  of  a  moved  and  agitated  mind,  always, 
when  properly  employed,  make  us  fympathize  with 
thofe  who  ufe  them,  and  enter  into  their  feelings. 
Nothing,  however,  has  a  worfe  effect,  than  frequent 
and  unfeafonable  ufe  of  exclamations.  Young,  unex- 
perienced writers  fuppofe  that  by  pouring  them  forth 


VISION   AND   CLIMAX.  99 

jjlenteoufly  they  render  their  compofitions  warm  and 
animated.  But  the  contrary  follows ;  they  render 
them  frigid  to  excefs.  When  an  author  is  always 
calling  upon  us  to  enter  into  tranfports,  which  he  has 
faid  nothing  to  infpire,  he  excites  our  difguft  and  in- 
dignation. 

Another  figure  of  fpeech,  fit  only  for  animated 
compofition,  is  called  Vision  ;  when,  inftead  of  relat- 
ing Something  that  is  pad,  we  ufe  the  prefent  tenfe, 
and  defcribe  it  as  if  paffing  before  our  eyes.  Thus 
Cicero  in  his  fourth  oration  againft  Catiline  *,  "  Vide- 
i(  or  enim  mihi  hanc  urbem  videre,  huem '  or  bis  t  err  arum 
"  at  que  arcem  omnium  gentium ,  fubito  uno  incendia  conci- 
M  dentum  \  cerno  ammo  fepulta  in  patria  miferos  atque  in- 
11  fepultos  acervos  civium  ;  verfatur  mihi  ante  oculos  afpec- 
c<  tus  Cethegi,  et  furor,  i?i  veftra  cade  bacchantis."  This 
figure  has  great  force  when  it  is  well  executed,  and 
when  it  flows  from  genuine  enthufiafm.  Otherwife, 
it  (hares  the  fame  fate  with  all  feeble  attempts  toward 
paffionate  figures  \  that  of  throwing  ridicule  upon  the 
author,  and  leaving  the  reader  more  cool  and  uninter- 
efted  than  he  was  before, 

The  lad  figure  which  we  fhall  mention,  and  which  is 
of  frequent  ufe  among  all  public  fpeakers,  is  Climax, 
It  confilts  in  an  artful  exaggeration  of  all  the  circum- 
ftances  of  fome  objeft  or  aclion  which  we  wifh  to 
place  in  a  ftrong  light.  It  operates  by  a  gradual  rife 
of  one  circumftance  above  another,  till  our  idea  is 
raifed  to  the  higheft  pitch.  We  fhall  give  an  inftance 
of  this  figure  from  a  printed  pleading  of  a  celebrated 
lawyer  in  a  charge  to  the  jury  in  the  cafe  of  a  wo- 
man, who  was  accufed  of  murdering  her  own  child. 
M  Gentlemen,  if  one  man  had  any  how  flain  another  j 


ICO      GENERAL  CHARACTERS  OF  STYLE, 

u  if  an  adverfary  had  killed  his  oppofer ;  or  a  womaia 
fl  occafioned  the  death  of  her  enemy ;  even  thefe  crim- 
"  inals  would  have  been  capitally  punifhed  by  the 
u  Cornelian  law.  But,  if  this  guiltlefs  infant,  who 
u  could  make  no  enemy,  had  been  murdered  by  its 
u  own  nurfe,  what  punifhments  would  not  the  mother 
"  have  demanded  ?  With  what  cries  and  exclamations, 
"  would  (lie  have  (tunned  your  ears  ?  What  (hall  we 
u  fay  then,  when  a  woman,  guilty  of  homicide  ;  a, 
u  mother,  of  the  murder  of  her  innocent  child,  hath 
"  comprifed  all  thofc  mifdeeds  in  one  fingle  crime  5 
"  a  crime,  in  its  own  nature,  dete (table  ;  in  a  woman 
u  prodigious  ;  in  a  mother  incredible  ;  and  perpetrated 
11  againft  one  whofe  age  called  for  compaffion  ;  whofe- 
u  near  relation  claimed  affection  ;  and  whofe  inno- 
rt  cence  deferved  the  higheft  favour?"  Such  regular 
climaxes,  however,  though  they  have  great  beauty, 
yet  at  the  fame  time  have  the  appearance  of  art  and 
ftudy  ;  and,  therefore,  though  they  may  be  admitted 
into  formal  harangues,  yet  they  are  not  the  language 
cf  paffion  which  feldom  proceeds  by  (teps  fo  regular*. 


GENERAL  CHARACTERS  OF  STYLE.  DIF- 
FUSE, CONCISE— FEEBLE,  NERVOUS  — 
DRY,  PLAIN,  NEAT,  ELEGANT,  FLOWERY. 

X  HAT  different  fubje&s  ought  to  be  treated 
in  different  kinds  of  ftyle,  is  a  pofition  fo  obvious,  that 
it  requires  no  illuftration.  Every  one  knows  that 
treatifes  of  philofophy  mould  not  be  compofed  in  the 
fame  ftyle  with  orations.     It  is  equally  apparent,  that 


EIFPUSE   AND   CONCISE.  1 01 

different  parts  of  the  fame  compofition  require  a  varia- 
tion in  the  flyle.  Yet  amid  this  variety,  we  ftill  ex- 
pert to  find  in  the  compofition0  of  any  one  man  fome 
degree  of  uniformity  in  manner  ;  we  expe£fc  to  find 
fome  prevailing  character  of  flyle  imprefTed  on  all  his 
writings,  which  will  mark  his  particular  genius  and 
turn  of  mind.  The  orations  in  Livy  differ  considera- 
bly in  ftyle,  as  they  ought  to  do,  from  the  reft  of  his 
hiftory.  The  fame  may  be  obferved  in  thofe  of  Taci- 
tus. Yet  in  the  orations  of  both  thefe  hiflorians,  the 
diftinguifhed  manner  of  each  may  be  clearly  traced ; 
the  fplendid  fulnefs  of  the  one,  and  the  fententious 
brevity  of  the  other.  Wherever  this  is  real  genius, 
it  prompts  to  one  kind  of  ftyle,  rather  than  to  another. 
Where  this  is  wanting ;  where  there  is  no  marked 
nor  peculiar  character  in  the  compofitions  of  an  au- 
thor ;  we  are  apt  to  conclude,  and  not  without  caufe, 
that  he  is  a  vulgar  and  trivial  author,  who  writes  from 
imitation,  and  not  from  the  impulfe  of  genius. 

One  of  the  fir  ft  and  moft  obvious  diftin&ions  in 
ftyle  arifes  from  an  author's  expanding  his  thoughts 
more  or  lefs.  This  diftin£lion  forms  what  are  termed 
the  diffufe  or  concife  ftyles.  A  concife  writer  com- 
prefles  his  ideas  into  the  feweft  words  ;  he  employs 
none  but  the  moft  expreflive  ;  he  lops  off  all  thofe 
which  are  not  a  material  addition  to  the  fenfe.  What- 
ever ornament  he  admits,  is  adopted  for  the  fake  of 
force,  rather  than  of  grace.  The  fame  thought  is 
never  repeated.  The  utmoft  precifion  is  ftudied  in 
his  fentences  ;  and  they  are  generally  defigned  to  fug- 
geft  more  to  the  reader's  imagination  than  they  ex- 
prefs. 

K  2 


tbl  DIFFUSE   AND    CONCISE. 

A  diffufe  writer  unfolds  his  idea  fully.  He  places 
it  in  a  variety  of  lights,  and  gives  the  reader  every  pof- 
fible  afliflance  for  underftanding  it  completely.  He  is 
not  very  anxious  to  exprefs  it  at  firft  in  its  full  ftrength, 
becaufe  he  intends  repeating  the  impreffion  •,  and3 
what  he  wants  in  ftrength,  he  endeavours  to  fupply 
by  copioufnefs.  His  periods  naturally  flow  into  fome 
length,  and,  having  room  for  ornament  of  every  kind, 
he  gives  it  free  admittance. 

Each  of  thefe  ftyles  has  its  peculiar  advantages  %... 
and  each  becomes  faulty,  when  carried  to  the  extreme, 
Of  concifenefs,  carried  as  far  as  propriety  will  allow, 
perhaps  in  fome  cafes  farther,  Tacitus  thehiftorian  and 
Montefquieu  in  u  l'Efprit  de  Loix"  are  remarkable  ex- 
amples. Of  a  beautiful  and  magnificent  difFufenefs, 
Cicero  is  undoubtedly  the  nobleft  inftance  which  can 
be  given.  Addifon  alfo  and  Sir  William  Temple  may 
be  ranked  in.  the  fame  clafs. 

In  determining  when  to  adopt  the  eoncife,  and  when 
the  diffufe  manner,  we  muft  be  guided  by  the  nature  of 
the  compofition.  Pifcourfes  that  are  to  be  fpoken,  re- 
quire a  more  difrufe  ftyle  than  books  which  are  to  be 
read.  In  written  compofitions  a  proper  degree  of  con- 
cifenefs has  great, advantages.  It  is  more  lively  ;  keeps 
up  attention  5  makes  a  ftrqnger  impreffion  on  the, 
mind.j  and  gratifies  the  reader  by  fupplying  more  ex- 
ercife  to  his  thoughts.  Description,  when  we  wiih . 
to  have  it  vivid  and  animated,  fhould  be  concife.  Any 
redundant  words  or  circumftances  encumber  the  fancy, 
and  render  the  objett  we  prefent;  to  it,  confufed  and 
indiftin£t.  The  ftrength  and  vivacity  of  description, 
whether  in  profe  or  poetry,  depend  much  more  upon 
a  happy  choice  of  one. or  two  important  ctrcumftances,,, 


NERVOUS   AND   FEEBLE*  I^J 

than  upon  the  multiplication  of  them.  When  we  de- 
fire  to  ftrike  the  fancy,  or  to  move  the  heart,  we  fhould 
be  concife  ;  when  to  inform  the  understanding,  which* 
is  more  deliberate  in  its  motions,  and  wants  the  affift- 
ance  of  a  guide,  it  is  better  to  be  fulL  Hiftorical  nar- 
ration may  be  beautiful  either  in  a  concife  or  diffufe 
manner,  according  to  the  author's  genius.  Livy  and 
Herodotus  are  diffufe  ;  Thucydides,  and  Salluft  arc 
concife  ;  yet  they  are  all  agreeable. 

The  nervous  and  the  feeble  are  generally  confider- 
cd  as  characters  of  ftyle  of  the  fame  import  with  the 
concife  and  the  diffufe.  Indeed  they  frequently  coin- 
cide ;  yet  this  does  not  always  hold  ;  fince  there  are  in-, 
ftances  of  writers,  who,  in  the  midft  of  a  full  and  ample 
ftyle,  have  maintained  a  confiderable  degree  of  ftrength. 
Livy  is  an  inftance  of  the  truth  of  this  obfervation. 
The  foundation  of  a  nervous  or  weak  ftyle  is  laid  in 
an  author's  manner  of  thinking.  If  he  conceive  an 
object  ftrongly,  he  will  exprefs  it  with  energy  ;  but, 
if  he  have  an  indiftinct  view  of  his  fubjecl,  it  will 
clearly  appear  in  his  ftyle.  Unmeaning  words  and 
locfe  epithets  will  efcape  him  •,  his  expreifions  will  be 
vague  and  general ;  his  arrangements  indiftin£l ;  and 
our  conception  of  his  meaning  will  be  faint  and  con- 
futed. But  a  nervous  writer,  be  his  ftyle  concife  or 
extended,  gives  us  always  a  ftrong  idea  of  his  meaning* 
His  mind  being  full  of  his  fubjecl,  his  words  are  a!~ 
ways  exprefllve  ;  every  phrafe  and  every  figure  renders 
the  picture  which  he  would  fet  before  us,  more  ftrik- 
ing  and  complete. 

It  muft,  however,  be  obferved,  that  too  great  ftudy 
of  ftrength  is  apt  to  betray  writers  into  a  harfti  manner,, 
Harflmefs  proceeds  from  uncommon  words,  from  forc- 
ed inverfions  in  die  cpn(lru£lion  of  a  fentence,  and. 


1C4  NERV0T7S,  FEEBLE,  DRY  /ND  PLAIN.~ 

from  neglect  of  fmoothnefs  and  eafe.  This  is  reckon^ 
ed  the  fault  of  fome  of  our  earliefl  claffics  ;  fuch  as- 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  Hooker,  Her- 
rington,  Cud  worth,  and  other  writers  of  confiderable 
reputation  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  James  I. 
and  Charles  I;  Thefe  writers  had  nerves  and  ftrength 
in  a  high  degree;  and  are  to  this  day  diftinguifhed  by 
this  quality  in  ftyle.  But  the  language  in  their  hands 
was  very  different  from- what  it  is  now,  and  was  in- 
deed entirely  formed  upon  the  idiom  and  conftru&ioii' 
of  the  Latin  in  the  arrangement  of  fentences.  The' 
prefent  form  of  our  language  has  in  fome  degree  fac- 
rificed  the  ftudy  of  ftrength  to  that  of  eafe  and  per- 
fpicuity.  Our  arrangement  is  lefs  forcible,  but  more 
plain  and  natural;  an^  this  is  now  confidered  as  the 
genius  of  our  tongue. 

Hitherto  ftyle  has  been  confidered  under  thofe  char- 
acters which  regard  its  expreflivenefs  of  an  author's 
meaning;  We  fhall  now  confider  it  with  refpecl:  to 
the  degree  of  ornament  employed  to  embellifh  it. 
Here  the  ftyle  of  different  authors  feems  to  rife  in  the 
following  gradation  ;  a  dry,  a  plain,  a  neat,  an  ele- 
gant, a  flowery  manner. 

A  dry  manner  excludes  every  kind  of  ornament. 
Content  with  being  underftood,  it  aims  not  to  pleafe 
either  the  fancy  or  the  ear.  This  is  tolerable  only  in 
pure  didactic  writing  ;  and  even  there,  to  make  ue 
bear  it,  great  folidity  of  matter  and  entire  perfpicuity 
of  language  are  required. 

A  plain  ftyle  rifes  one  degree  above  a  dry  one.  A 
writer  of  this  character  employs  very  little  ornament 
of  any  kind,  and  refts  almoft  entirely  upon  his 
fenfe.     But,  though  he  does  not  engage  us  by  the  arte 


NEAT   AND   ELEGANT.  IOJ 

•f  compofition,  he  avoids  difgufting  us  like  a  dry  and 
a  harfh  writer.  Befide  perfpicuity,  be  obferves  pro- 
priety, purity,  and  precifion  in  Iiis  language,  which 
form  no  inconfiderable  degree  of  beauty.  Livelinefs 
and  force  are  alfo  compatible  with  a  plain  flyle  ;  and 
therefore  fuch  an  author,  if  his  fentiments  be  good, 
may  be  fufficiently  agreeable.  The  difference  between 
a  dry  and  a  plain  writer  is  this  ;  the  former  is  incapa- 
ble of  ornament  j  the  latter  goes  not  in  purfuit  of  it. 
Of  thofe  who  have  employed  the  plain  ftyle>  Dean 
Swift  is  an  eminent  example. 

A  neat  ftyle  is  next  in  order  ny  and  here  we  are  ad- 
vanced into  the  region  of  ornament  ;  but  not  of  the 
rnoft  fparkling  kind.  A  writer  of  this  character  fliows 
by  his  attention  to  the  choice  of  words,  and  to  their 
graceful  collocation)  that  he  does  not  defpife  the  beau- 
ty of  language.  His  fentences  are  always  free  from, 
the  incumbrance  of  fuperfluous  words  ;  of  a  moderate 
length  5  inclining  rather  to  brevity,  than  a  fwelling 
ftrudlure  ;  and  doling  with  propriety.  There  is  varie- 
ty in  his  cadence  ;  but  no  appearance  of  ftudied  har- 
mony. His  figures,  if  he  ufe  any,  are  fhort  and  ac- 
curate, rather  than  bold  and  glowing.  Such  a  ftyle 
may  be  attained  by  a  writer,  whofe  powers  of  fancy  or 
genius  are  not  great,  by  induftry  and  attention.  This 
fort  of  ftyle  is  not  unfuitable  to  any  fubjecl:  whatever. 
A  familiar  epiflle,  or  a  law  paper  on  the  dried;  fubje£r, 
may  be  written  with  neatnefs  ;  and  a  fermon,  or  a 
philosophical  treatife  in  a  neat  ftyle,  is  read  with  fatif- 
faftion. 

An  elegant  ftyle  implies  a  higher  degree  of  orna- 
ment than  a  neat  one  ;  pofTefling  all  the  virtues  of  or- 
nament without  any  of  its  excefles  or  defects.  Com- 
plete elegance  implies  great  perfpicuity  and  propriety  ^ 


1 0(5  STYLE— SIMPLICITY 

purity  in  the  choice  of  words  •,  and  care  and  flail  irf 
their  arrangement.  It  implies  farther  the  beauties  of 
imagination  fpread  over  ftyle  as  far  as  the  fubjeft  per- 
mits ;  and  all  the  illuftration  which  figurative  language 
adds,  when  properly  employed.  An  elegant  writer  in 
fhort,  is  one  who  delights  the  fancy  and  the  ear,  while 
he  informs  the  understanding  5  who  clothes  his  ideas 
in  all  the  beauty  of  expreflion,  but  does  not  overload 
them  with  any  of  its  mifplaced  finery* 

A  florid  ftyle  implies  excefs  of  ornament.  In  a 
young  compofer  it  is  not  only  pardonable,  but  often  a 
promifing  fymptom.  But,  although  it  may  be  allowed 
to  youth  in  their  firft  eflays,  it  mud  not  receive  ths 
fame  indulgence  from  writers  of  more  experience.  In 
them  judgment  filoulcl  chaften  imagination,  and  reject 
every  ornament  which  is  unfuitable  or  redundant* 
That  tinfel  fplendor  of  language  which  fome  writers 
perpetually  afFefr,  is  truly  contemptible.  With  fuch 
it  is  a  luxuriancy  of  words,  not  of  fancy.  They  for- 
get that  unlefs  founded  on  goodfenfe  andfolid  thought, 
the  mofl  florid  ftyle  is  but  a  childifh  impofition  on  the 
public. 


STYLE.  SIMPLE,  AFFFCTED,  VEHEMENT. 
DIRECTIONS  FOR  FORMING  A  PROPER 
STYLE. 

SIMPLICITY,  applied  to  writing,  is  a  term 
very  commonly  ufed  *,  but,  like  many  other  critical 
terms,  often  ufed  without  precifion.  The  different 
meanings  of  the  word  fimplicity  are  the  chief  caufe 
•f  this  inaccuracy.     It  is  therefore  neceflary  to  (how* 


SIMPLICITY.  I07 

In  what  fenfe  fimplicity  is  a  proper  attribute  of  ftyle. 
There  are  four  different  acceptations,  in  which  this 
*erm  is  taken. 

The  firft  is  fimplicity  of  compofition,  as  oppofed  to 
4oo  great  a  variety  of  parts.  This  is  the  fimplicity  of 
plan  in  tragedy,  as  difti'nguifhed  from  double  plots 
-and  crowded  incidents  ;  the  fimplicity  of  the  Iliad  in 
.oppofition  to  the  digreflions  of  Lucan  ;  the  fimplici- 
ty of  Grecian  architecture  in  oppofition  to  the  irregu- 
lar variety  of  the  Gothic.  Simplicity  in  this  fenfe  is 
=the  fame  with  unity. 

The  fecond  ienfe  is  fimplicity  of  thought  in  oppo- 
sition to  refinement.  Simple  thoughts  are  thofe  which 
flow  naturally  ;  which  are  fuggefted  by  the  fubje£fc  or 
occafion  ;  and  which,  when  once  fuggefted,  are  eafily 
underftood  by  all.  Refinement  in  writing  means  a 
lefs  obvious«and  natural  train  of  thought,  which,  when 
carried  too  far,  approaches  to  intricacy,  and  difpleafes 
us  by  the  appearance  of  being  far  fought.  Thus  Par- 
nell  is  a  poet  of  much  greater  fimplicity  in  his  turn  of 
thought  than  Cowley.  In  thefe  two  fenfes  fimplicity 
has  no  relation  to  ftyle. 

The  third  fenfe  of  fimplicity  regards  ftyle,  and  is 
oppofed  to  too  much  ornament,  or  pomp  of  language. 
Thus  we  fay  Mr.  Locke  is  a  fimple,  Mr.  Harvey  a 
florid  .writer.  A  fimple  ftyle,  in  this  fenfe^  coincides 
with  a  plain  or  neat  ftyle. 

The  fourth  fenfe  of  fimplicity  alfo  refpecls  ftyle  ; 
but  it  regards  not  fo  much  the  degree  of  ornament 
•  employed,  as  the  eafy  and  natural  manner,  in  which 
our  language  exprefles  our  thoughts.  In  this  fenfe 
fimplicity  is  compatible  with  the  higheft  ornament. 
Homer,  for  example,  pofiefles   this  fimplicity  in  the 


I  OS  9IMFLICITY— ^AFFECTATION. 

greateft  perfeftion  5  and  yet  no  writer  has  more  orna- 
ment and  beauty.  This  fimplicity  is  oppofed  not  to 
ornament,  but  to  affe&ation  of  ornament  ;  and  is  a 
fuperior  excellence  in  compofition. 

A  fimple  writer  has  no  marks  of  art  in  his  expref- 
fion  ;  it  appears  the  very  language  of  nature.  We  fee 
not  the  writer  and  his  labour,  but  the  man  in  his  own 
natural  chara£ter.  He  may  be  rich  in  expreflion  5  he 
may  be  full  of  figures  and  of  fancy  ;  but  thefe  flow 
from  him  without  effort  ^  and  he  feems  to  write  in  this 
manner,  not  becaufe  he  had  ftudied  it,  but  becaufe  it 
is  the  mode  of  expreffion  mod  natural  to  hirii.  With 
this  charafter  of  ftyle  a  certain  degree  of  negligence 
is  not  inconfiftent  ;  for  too  accurate  an  attention  to 
words  is  foreign  to  it.  Simplicity  of  ftyle,  like  fim- 
plicity of  manners,  (hows  a  man's  fentiments  and  turn 
of  mind  without  difguife.  A  more  ftudied  and  arti- 
ficial mode  of  writing,  however  beautiful,  has  always 
this  difadvantage,  that  it  exhibits  an  author  in  form, 
like  a  man  at  court,  where  fplendor  of  drefs  and  the  . 
ceremonial  of  behaviour  conceal  thofe  peculiarities 
which  diftinguifh  one  man  from  another.  But  read- 
ing an  author  of  fimplicity  is  like  converfing  with  a 
perfon  of  rank  at  home  and  with  eafe,  where  we  fee 
his  natural  manners  and  his  real  chara£ter. 

With  regard  to  fimplicity  in  general,  we  may  ob- 
ferve,  that  the  ancient  original  writers  are  always  moil 
eminent  for  it.  This  proceeds  from  a  very  obvious 
caufe ;  they  v/rote  from  the  dictates  of  genius,  and  ' 
were  not  formed  upon  the  labours  and  writings  of 
others. 

Of  affe£tation,  which  is  oppofed  to  fimplicity  of  ftyle, 
we  have  a  remarkable  example  in  Lord  Shaftefbury. 


AFFECTATION.  10^ 

Though  an  author  of  confiderable  merit,  he  exprefles 
nothing  with  fimplicity.  He  feems  to  have  thought 
it  vulgar,  and  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man  of  quality, 
to  fpeak  like  other  men.  Hence  he  is  ever  in  buf- 
kins  *,  full  of  circumlocutions  and  artificial  elegance. 
In  every  fentence  we  fee  marks  of  labour  and  art  5 
nothing  of  that  eafe  which  exprefles  a  fentiment  com- 
ing natural  and  warm  from  the  heart.  He  abounds 
with  figures  and  ornament  of  every  kind  ;  is  fome- 
times  happy  in  them  5  but  his  fondnefs  for  them  is  too 
vifible  ;  and,  having  once  feized  fome  metaphor  or  al- 
lufion,  that  pleafed  him,  he  knows  not  how  to  part 
with  it.  He  poffeffed  delicacy  and  refinement  of  tafte 
in  a  degree  that  may  be  called  exceflive  and  fickly  ; 
but  he  had  little  warmth  of  pafllon  5  and  the  coldnefs  of 
his  character  fuggefted  that  artificial  and  (lately  man- 
ner which  appears  in  his  writings.  No  author  is  more 
-dangerous  to  the  tribe  of  imitators  than  Shaftefbury  j 
who,  amid  feveral  very  confiderable  blemifhes,  has 
many  dazzling  and  impofing  beauties. 

It  is  very  poffible  however  for  an  author  to  write 
with  fimplicity,  and  yet  without  beauty.  He  may  be 
free  from  affectation,  and  not  have  merit.  Beautiful 
fimplicity  fuppofes  an  author  to  poffefs  real  genius  ; 
and  to  write  with  folidity,  purity,  and  brilliancy  of  im- 
agination. In  this  cafe,  the  fimplicity  of  his  manner 
is  the  crowning  ornament  ;  it  heightens  every  other 
beauty  •,  it  is  the  drefs  of  nature,  without  which  all 
beauties  are  imperfect.  But,  if  mere  abfence  of  affec- 
tation were  fufficient  to  conftitute  beauty  of  ftyle, 
weak  and  dull  writers  might  often  lay  claim  to  it. 
A  diftinftion  therefore  mult  be  made  between  that 
L 


IIO     DIRECTIONS  ?0R  FORMING  A  PROPER  STYLE. 

Cmplicity  which  accompanies  true  genius  and  is  en- 
tirely compatible  with  every  proper  ornament  of  ftyle, 
and  that  which  is  the  effect  of  careleffnefs. 

Another  character  of  ftyle,  different  from  thofe  al- 
ready mentioned,  is  vehemence.  This  always  implies 
ftrength  ;  and  is  not  in  any  refpect  incompatible  with 
fimplicity.  It  is  di ft ingui fried  by  a  peculiar  ardour  ;  it 
is  the  language  of  a  man  whofe  imagination  and  paf- 
Cons  are  glowing  and  impetuous  ;  who,  neglecting  in- 
ferior graces,  pours  himfelf  forth  with  the  rapidity  and 
fulnefs  of  a  torrent.  This  belongs  to  the  higher 
kinds  of  oratory  ;  and  is  rather  expected  from  a  man 
who  is  fpeaking,  than  from  one  who  is  writing  in  his 
clofet.  Demofthenes  is  the  mod  full  and  perfect  ex- 
ample of  this  kind  of  ftyle. 

Having  explained  the  different  characters  of  ftyle, 
we  (hall  conclude  our  obfervations  with  a  few  direc- 
tions for  attaining  a  good  ftyle  in  general. 

The  firft  direction  is,  ftudy  clear  ideas  of  the  fub- 
jecr,  on  which  you  are  to  write  or  fpeak.  What  we 
conceive  clearly  and  feel  ftrongly,  we  naturally  exprefs 
with  clearnefs  and  ftrength.  We  fhouid  therefore 
think  clofely  on  the  fubjecl:,  till  we  have  attained ^ 
full  and  diftincT:  view  of  the  matter  which  we  are  to 
clothe  in  words  ;  till  we  become  warm  and  interefted 
In  it  ;  then,  and  then  only,  (hall  we  find  expreffion 
begin  to  flow. 

Secondly,  to  the  acquifition  of  a  good  ftyle,  frequen- 
cy of  compofing  is  indifpenfably  neceflary.  But  it  is 
not  every  kind  of  compofing  that  will  improve  ftjte. 
By  a  carelefs  and  hafty  habit  of  writing,  a  bad  ftyle  will 
be  acquired  ;  more  trouble  will  afterward  be  neceffa- 
ry  to  unlearn  faults,  than  to  become  acquainted  with 


SECTIONS  FOR  FORMING  A  PROPER  STYLE.      1 1  t 

the  rudiments  of  compofition.  In  the  beginning  there- 
fore we  ought  to  write  flowly  and  with  much  care.  Fa- 
cility and  fpeed  are  the  fruit  of  practice.  We  mud  be 
cautious,  however,  not  to  retard  the  courfe  of  thought, 
nor  cool  the  ardour  of  imagination,  by  paufing  too  long 
on  every  word.  On  certain  occafigns  a  glow  of  com- 
pofition  muft  be  kept  up,  if  we  hope  to  exprefs  our- 
felves  happily,  though  at  the  expenfe  of  fome  inac- 
curacies. A  more  fevere  examination  muft  be  the 
work  of  correction.  What  we  have  written  mould 
belaid  by  fome  time,  till  the  ardour  of  compofition  be 
paft  \  till  partiality  for  our  expreffions  be  weakened, 
and  the  expreffions  themfelves  be  forgotten  ;  and  then, 
reviewing  our  work  with  a  cool  and  critical  eye,  as  if 
it  were  the  performance  of  another,  we  (hall  difcover 
many  imperfections  which  at-  firft  efcaped  us. 

Thirdly,  acquaintance  with  the  ftyle  of  the  bed  au- 
thors is  peculiarly  requifite.  Hence  a  juft  tafte  will 
be  formed,  and  a  copious  fund  of  words  fupplied  on 
every  fubje£t.  No  exercife  perhaps  will  be  found  more 
ufeful  for  acquiring  a  proper  ftyle,  that  tranflating 
fome  paffage  from  an  eminent  author  into  our  own 
words.  Thus  to  take,  for  inftance,  a  page  of  one  of 
Addifon's  Spectators,  and  read  it  attentively  two  or 
three  times,  till  we  are  in  full  pofieffron  of  the  thoughts 
it  contains  ;  then  to  lay  afide  the  book  ;  to  endeavour 
to  write  out  the  pafiage  from  memory  as  well  as  we 
can  •,  and  then  to  compare  what  we  have  written 
with  the  ftyle  of  the  author.  Such  an  exercife  will 
fhew  us  our  defects  ;  will  teach  us  to  correct  them  9 
and,  from  the  variety  of  expreffion  which  it  will  ex- 
hibit, will  conduit  us  to  that  which  is  moft  beautiful. 


112     DIRECTIONS  FOR  FORMING  A  PROPER  STYLE.. 

Fourthly,  caution  mufl  be  ufed  againft  fervile  imi* 
Nation  of  any  author  whatever.  Defire  of  imitating, 
hampers  genius,  and  generally  produces  ftifFnefs  of 
expreflion.  They  who  follow  an  author  clofely,  com- 
monly copy  his  faults  as  well  as  his  beauties.  No  one 
will  ever  become  a  good  writer  or  fpeaker,  who  has 
not  fome  confidence  in  his  own  genius.  We  ought 
carefully  to  avoid  ufmg  any  author's  peculiar  phrafes, 
und  of  transcribing  paifages  from  him.  Such  a  habit 
will  be  fatal  to  all  genuine  compofkion.  It  is  much 
better  to  have  fomething  of  our  own,  though  of  mod- 
erate beauty,  than  to  fhine  in  borrowed  ornaments, 
which  will  at  Jaft  betray  the  poverty  of  our  genius. 

Fifthly,  always  adapt  your  ftyle  to  the  fubjedt,  and 
jikewife  to  the  capacity  of  your  hearers,  if  you  are  to 
ifeak  in  public.  To  attempt  a  poetical  ftyle,  when  it 
fliouid  be  our  bufinefs  only  to  reafon,  is  in  the  higheft 
degree  awkward  and  abfurd.  To  fpeak  with  elaborate 
pomp  of  words  before  thofe  who  cannot  comprehend 
them,  is  equally  ridiculous.  When  we  are  to  write 
or  fpeak,  we  fhould  previously  fix  in  our  minds  a  clear 
idea  of  the  end  aimed  at  •,  keep  this  fteadily  in  view, 
and  adapt  our  ftyle  to  it. 

Laftly,  let  not  attention  to  ftyle  engrofs  us  fo  much 
as  to  prevent  a  higher  degree  of  attention  to  the 
dioughts.  This  rule  is  more  neceflary,  fince  the  pref- 
c.it  tafte  of  the  age  is  directed  more  to  ftyle  than  to 
thought.  It  is  much  more  eafy  to'drefs  up  trifling 
and  common  thoughts  with  fome  beauty  of  expreflion, 
than  to  afford  a  fund  of  vigorous,  ingenious,  and  ufe- 
ful  fentiments.  The  latter  requires  genius  ,  the  for- 
mer may  be  attained  by  induftry.  Hence  the  crowd 
of  writers  who  are  rich  in  ftyle,  but  poor  in  fentimcntt 


CRITICAL    EXAMINATION,  &C.  U3 

Cuftom  obliges  us  to  be  attentive  to  the  ornaments  of 
ityle,  if  we  wifh  our  labours  to  be  read  and  admired. 
But  he  is  a  contemptible  writer,  who  looks  not  beyond 
the  drefs  of  language  ;  who  lays  not  the  chief  ilrefs 
upon  his  matter,  and  employs  not  fuch  ornaments  of 
ftyle  to  recommend  it,  as  are  manly,  not  foppifh. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  Mr.  ADDISON's 
STYLE  IN  No.  411  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

XlAVING  fully  infifted  on  the  fubjeft  of  lan- 
guage, we  (hall  now  commence  a  critical  analyfis  of 
the  (tyle  of  fome  good  author.  This  will  fuggeit  ob- 
fervations,  which  we  have  not  hitherto  had  occafion 
to  make,  and  will  (how  in  a  practical  light  the  ufe  o£ 
thofe  which  have  been  made. 

Mr.  Addifon,  though  one  of  the  moft  beautiful  wri- 
ters in  our  language,  is  not  the  moft  correct  5  a  cir- 
cumftance  which  makes  his  compofition  a  proper  fub- 
ject  of  criticifm.  We  proceed  therefore  to  examine 
No.  411,  the  firfl  of  his  celebrated  eflays  on  the  pieaf- 
ures  of  the  imagination  in  the  fixth  volume  of  the 
Spectator.     It  begins  thus  : 

Our  fight  is  the  moji  perfecly  and  moft  delightful  of  all 
our  fenfes. 

This  fentence  is  clear,  precife  and  fimple.  The  au* 
thor  in  a  few  plain  words  lays  down  the  propofition, 
which  he  is  going  to  illuftrate.  A  firft  fentence  fhould 
feldom  be  long,  and  never  intricate. 

He  might  have  faid,  our  fight  is  the  mojl  perfeft  and 
the  mojl  delightful.    But  in  omitting  to  repeat  the  par* 


114  CRITICAL   EXAMINATION 

tide  the,  he  has  been  more  judicious  ;  for,  as  between 
perfecl  and  delightful  there  is  no  contrail,  fuch  a  repe- 
tition is  unneceffary.     He  proceeds  : 

//  Jills  the  mind  with  the  largejl  variety  of  ideas,  con* 
verfes  with  its  objecls  at  the  greatefl  difance,  and  contin- 
ues the  longejl  in  aclion,  without  being  tired  or  fatiated 
with  its  proper  enjoyments* 

This  fentence  is  remarkably  harmonious,  and  well 
conftrudted.  It  is  entirely  perfpicuous.  It  is  loaded 
with  no  unneceffary  words.  That  quality  of  a  good 
fentence,  which  we  termed  its  unity,  is  here  perfectly 
preferved.  The  members  of  it  alfo  grow,  and  rife 
above  each  other  in  found,  till  it  is  conducted  to  one 
of  the  moil  harmonious  clofes  which  our  language 
admits.  It  is  moreover  figurative  without  being  too 
much  fo  for  the  fubjecT:.  There  is  no  fault  in  it  what- 
ever* except  this,  the  epithet  large,  which  he  applies  to 
variety,  is  more  commonly  applied  to  extent  than  to- 
number.  It  is  plain,  however,  that  he  employed  it  to 
avoid  the  repetition  of  the  word  great,  which  occuro 
immediately  afterward. 

The  fenfe  of  feeling  can,  indeed,  give  us  a  notion  of  ex- 
ienfton^fldape^  and  all  other  ideas  that  enter  at  the  eyey  ex- 
cept colours  ;  but,  at  the  fame  time,  it  is  very  much  flraiU 
ened  and  confined  in  its  operations,  to  the  number,  bulk, 
and  difance  of  its  particular  objects.  But  is  not  every 
fenfe  confined  as  much  as  the  fenfe  of  feeling,  to  the 
number,  bulk,  and  diftance  of  its  own  objects  ?  The 
turn  of  expreflion  is  alfo  very  inaccurate,  requiring 
the  two  words,  with  regard,  to  be  inferted  after  the 
word  operations,  in  order  to  make  the  fenfe  clear  and 
intelligible.  The  epithet  particular  feems  to  be  ufed 
kiftead  of  peculiar  \    but  thefe  words,  though   often 


of  MR.  Addison's  style.  tr$ 

confounded  are  of  very  different  import.  Particular 
is  oppofed  to  general ;  peculiar  (lands  oppofed  to  what 
is  pofieffed  in  common  with  others* 

Our  fight  feems  dtfigned  to  fupply  all  thefe  defecls,  and 
may  be  corfidered  as  a  more  delicate  and  diffuftve  kind  of 
touch  that  fp  reads  itf elf  over  an  infinite  multitude  of  bodies , 
comprehends  the  largejl  figures,  and  brings  into  our  reach 
fome  of  the  mojl-  remote  parts  of  the  univerfe. 

This  fentence  is  perfpicuous,  graceful,  well  arrang- 
ed, and  highly  mufical.  Its  ccnftruo~tion  is  fo  fimilar 
to  that  of  the  fee  on  d  fentence,  that,  had  it  immediate- 
ly fucceeded  it,  the  ear  would  have  been  fenfible  of  a 
faulty  monotony*  But  the  interpofition  of  a  period 
prevents  this  effect. 

It  is  this  ftnfe  which  furnifhes  the  imagination  with  its 
ideas  ;  fo  that,  by  the pleafures  of  the  imagination  or  fancy  , 
(which  I  jhill  ufe  promifcuoifly)  I  here  mean  fuch  as 
arife  from  vifible  objetls,  either  when  we  have  them  atlu- 
all;  in  our  view,  or  when  we  call  up  their  ideas  into  our 
minds  by  paintings,  fiatues,  defcriptions,  or  any  the  like 
cccq/ion. 

The  parenthefis  in  the  middle  of  this  fentence  is 
not  clean  It  fhould  have  been,  terms  which  Jfhallufe 
promifcucufy  ;  fince  the  verb  ufe  does  not  relate  to  the 
pleafures  of  the  imagination,  but  to  the  terms,  fancy 
ivad  imagination,  which  were  meant  to  be  fynonimous. 
To  call  a  painting  or  a  ftatue  an  occafon  is  not  accu- 
xate  ;  nor  is  it  very  proper  to  fpeak  of  calling  up  ideas 
by  occafions.  The  common  phrafe  any  fuch  means,  would 
have  been  more  natural. 

We  cannot  indeed  have  afingle  image  in  the  fancy,  that 

Aid  not  make  its  firfl  entrance  through  the  fight. ;  but  we 

\e  the  power  of  'retaining,  altering,  and  compounding  thofe 


*  l6  CRITICAL    EXAMINATION 

images  which  we  have  once  received,  into  all  the  van. 
of  pi  Bur  e  and  vifion  that  are  mojl  agreeable  to  the  imagina- 
tion ;  for,  by  this  faculty,  a  man  in  a  dungeon  is  capable- 
of  entertaining  him/elf  with  fcenes  and  Ian dj capes  more 
beautiful  than  any  that  can  be  found  in  the  whole  compafs 
of  nature*  , 

In  one  member  of  this  fentence  there  is  an  inaccu- 
racy in  fyntax.  It  is  proper  to  fay,  altering  and  com-- 
pounding  thofe  images  which  we  have  once  received,  into 
all  the  varieties  of  piclure  and  vifton.  But  we  cannot 
with  propriety  fay,  retaining  them  into  all  the  vari- 
eties \  yet  the  arrangement  requires  this  confrru£tion0 
This  error  might  have  been  avoided  by  arranging  the 
pafiage  in  the  following  manner  :  "  We  have  the  pow- 
u  er  of  retaining  thofe  images  which  we  have  once 
*f  received  \  and  of  altering  and  compounding  them 
u  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vinon."  The 
latter  part  of  the  fentence  is  clear  and  elegant. 

There  are  few  words  in  the  £ngli/h  language,   which 
are  employed  in  a  more  loofe  and  uncircumfcribed  fenfe  than: 
thofe  of  the  fancy  and  the  imagination. 

Except  when  fome  affertion  of  confequence  is  ad- 
vanced, thefe  little  words,  it  is  and  there  are,  ought  to 
be  avoided,  as  redundant  and  enfeebling.  The  two- 
firft  words  of  this  fentence  therefore  fhould  have  been 
omitted.  The  article  prefixed  to  fancy  and  imagination 
ought  alfo  to  have  been  omitted,  fince  he  does  not 
mean  the  powers  of  the  fancy  and  the  imagination,  but 
the  words  only.  The  fentence  fhould  have  run  thus  % 
u  Few  words  in  the  Englifh  language  are  employed  in 
"  a  more  loofe  and  uncircumfcribed  fenfe  than  fancy 
w  and  imagination." 


OF   MR.  ADDISON  S    STYLE.  1 1'/ 

I  therefore  thought  it  necejfary  to  fix  and  determine  the 
notion  of  thefe  two  words ,  as  I  intend  to  make  ufe  of  them 
hi  the  thread  of my  following  /peculations,  that  the  reader 
tnay  conceive  rightly  what  is  the  fubjetl  which  I  proceed 
upon. 

The  words  fix  and  determine,  though  they  may  ap- 
pear fo,  are  not  fynonimous.  We  fix  what  is  loofe  ; 
we  determine  what  is  uncircumfcribed.  They  may  be 
viewed,  therefore,  as  applied  here  with  peculiar  del- 
icacy. 

The  notion  of  thefe  words  is  rather  harfh,  and  is  not 
fo  commonjy  ufed,  as  the  meaning  of  thefe  words.  As 
I  intend  to  make  ufe  of  them  in  the  thread  of  my  /peculations 
is  evidently  faulty.  A  fort  of  metaphor  is  improperly 
mixed  with  words  in  their  literal  fenfe.  The  fubjetl 
which  I  proceed  upon  is  an  ungraceful  clofe  of  a  fen- 
tence  •,  it  ihould  have  been,  the  fubjetl  upon  which  I 
proceed. 

1  mufi  therefore  defire  him  to  remember,  that  by  the 
pleafures  of  imagination,  I  mean  only  fuch  pleafures  as  arife 
$riginally  from  fight,  and  that  I  divide  thefe  pleafures  inta 
two  kinds. 

This  fentence  begins  in  a  manner  too  fimilar  to  the 
preceding.  I  mean  only  fuch  pleafures— the  adverb  only 
is  not  in  its  proper  place.  It  is  not  intended  here  to 
qualify  the  verb  mean,  but  fuch  pleafures  -,  and  ought 
therefore  to  be  placed  immediately  after  the  latter. 

My  defign  being,  firfil  of  all,  to  dijeourfe  of  thefe  primary- 
pleafures  of  the  imagination,  which  entirely  proceed  from 
fuch  objecls  as  are  before  our  eyes ;  and,  in  the  next  place% 
to  J  peak  of  thofe  fecondary  pleafures  of  the  imagination  which 
fiowfrom  the  ideas  of  vifible  objecls,  when  the  objecls  are 
vot  atlually  before  the  eye}  but  are  called  up  into  our  mem* 


m 


II 8  CRITICAL    EXAMINATION 

ories,  or  formed  hito  agreeable  vifions  of  things,  thai  are' 
either  abfertt  or  f Bilious, 

Neatnefs  and  brevity  are  peculiarly  requifite  in  the 
divifion  of  a  fubjecT:.  This  fentence  is  fomevvhat 
clogged  by  a  tedious  phrafeology.  My  defign  being, 
firfl  of  all)  to  difccurfe—in  the  next  place  to  J  peak  of—- 
fiich  cbjecls  as  are  before  our  eyes— things  that  are  either 
abfent  or  ficlitious.  Several  words  might  have  been 
omitted,  and  the  flyle  made  more  neat  and  compact, 

jThe  pleafures  of  the  imagination,  taken  in  their  full  ex- 
tent >  are  not  fo  grofs  as  thofe  offenfe,  nor  fo  refined  as  thcfe 
tfthe  unci  erf  an  ding. 

This  fentence  is  clear  and  elegant. 

Ihe  loft  are  indeed  more  preferable,  becaufe  they  arc 
founded  on  fome  new  knowledge  or  improvement  in  the  mind 
§f  man  :  yet  it  mujl  be  confeffed,  that  thofe  of  the  imagi~ 
nation  are  as  great  and  as  tranfporting  as  the  other. 

The  phrafe,  more  preferable,  is  fo  palpable  an  inaccu- 
racy, that  we  wonder  how  it  could  efcape  the  obfer- 
vation  of  Mr.  Addifon.  The  propofition,  contained 
in  the  lafl  member  of  this  fentence,  is  neither  clearly 
nor  elegantly  expreiTed.  It  mujl  be  confejfed,  that  thofe 
$f  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  as  tranfporting  as  the 
other.  In  the  beginning  of  this  fentence  he  had  called 
tht  pleafures  of  the  underftanding  the  lafl  ;  and  he 
concludes  with  obferving,  that  thofe  of  the  imagina- 
tion are  as  great  and  tranfporting  as  the  other.  Be- 
fide  that  the  other  makes  not  a  proper  contrail  with 
the  lafl,  it  is  left  doubtful  whether  by  the  other  are 
meant  the  pleafures  of  the  underftanding,  or  the 
pleafures  of  fenfe  j  though  without  doubt  it  was  in- 
tended to  refer  to  the  pleafures  of  the  underftanding 
$nly, 


1J9 

A  beautiful  profpecl  delights  the  foul  as  much  as  a  demon* 
ftration  ;  and  a  defcription  in  Homer  has  charmed  more 
readers  than  a  chapter  in  Arijlolle. 

This  is  a  good  illu ftration  of  what  he  had  been  afllrt- 
ing,  and  is  exprefled  with  that  elegance,  by  which 
Mr.  Addiibn  is  diftinguifhed. 

Bc/tdes,  the  pleaf ure s  of  the  imagination  have  this  advan- 
tage above  thofe  of  the  under/landing,  that  they  are  more 
obvious,  and  more  eafy  to  be  acquired. 

This  fentence  is  unexceptionable. 

It  is  but  opening  the  eye,  and  the  fcene  enters. 

Though  this  is  lively  and  piefcurefque,  yet  we  mud 
-remark  a  fmall  inaccuracy.  A  fcene  cannot  be  faid  to 
-enter  ;  an  aclor  enters  ;  but  a  fcene  appears  or  prefents 
Hfelf. 

The  colours  paint  them  five*  on  the  fancy ,  with  very  lit- 
tle attention  of  thought  or  application  of  mind  in  the  beholder. 

This  is  beautiful  and  elegant,  and  well  fuited  to 
i'hofe  pieafurcs  of  the  imagination  of  which  the  au- 
thor is  treating. 

We  are  finicky  we  know  not  howy  with  the  fymmetry  of 
any  thing  we  fee  ;  and  immediately  ajfent  to  the  beauty  of 
an  objeclt  without  inquiring  into  the  particular  caufes  and 
occafions  of  it. 

We  ajfent  to  the  truth  of  a  propofition  ;  but  cannot 
with  propriety  be  faid  to  ajfent  to  the  beauty  of  an  objeSl* 
In  the  conoluCwriy particular  and  ocenfions  are  fuperfluous 
words  ;  and  the  pronoun  it  is  in  fome  meafure  am- 
biguous. 

A  man  of  a  polite  imagination  is  let  into  a  great  many 
fleafnres  that  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receiving. 

The  term  polite  is  oftener  applied  to  manners,  than 
to  the  imagination*     The  ufe  of  that  inftead  of  which 


120  CRITICAL   EXAMINATION 

is  too  common  with  Mr.  Addifon.  Except  in  cafes 
where  it  is  neceilary  to  avoid  repetition,  which  i-  pre* 
ferable  to  that)  and  is  undoubtedly  fo  in  the  prefent 
inftance. 

He  can  converfe  with  a  picture,  and  find  an  agreeable 
companion  in  a  fiat  tie.  He  meets  with  afecret  refrefhment 
in  a  defcription  ;  and  often  feels  a  greater  fatisfaclion  in 
the  prof peB  of  fields  and  meadows,  than  another  does  in  the 
poffeffion.  It  gives  him,  indeed r,  a  kind  of  property  in  every 
thing  he  fees  j  and  makes  the  mofi  rude  uncultivated  parts 
of  nature  adminifier  to  his  pleafures  :  fo  that  he  looks  upon 
the  world)  as  it  were9  in  another  light,  and  dij covers  in  it 
a  multitude  of  charms  that  conceal  themfelves  from  the 
generality  of  mankind* 

This  fentence  is  eafy,  flowing,  and  harmonious. 
We  mud  however  obferve  a  flight  inaccuracy.  It 
gives  him  a  kind  of  property — to  this  it  there  is  no  an- 
tecedent in  the  whole  paragraph.  To  difcover  its 
connexion,  we  muft  look  back  to  the  third  fentence 
preceding,  which  begins  withtf  man  of  a  polite  imaginat- 
ion. This  phrafe,  polite  imagination^  is  the  only  ante- 
cedent to  which  it  can  refer  ;  and  even  this  is  not  a 
proper  antecedent,  fince  it  flands  in  the  genitive  cafe 
as  the  qualification  only  of  a  man, 

There  are,  indeed,  but  very  few  who  know  how  to  be 
idle  and  innocent,  or  have  a  relifh  of  any  pleafures  that  are 
net  criminal  \  every  divetfion  they  take,  is  at  the  expenfe 
offome  one  virtue  or  another,  and  their  very  firfi  fiep  out 
ofbifinefs  is  into  vice  or  folly. 

This  fentence  is  truly  elegant,  mufical,  and  correct. 

A  man  fhould  endeavour,  therefore,  to  make  the  fphere 
of  his  innocent  pleafures  as  wide  as  poffible,  that  he  may 
retire  into  them  with  fafety,  and  find  in  them  fuch  a  fat^ 
isfaclion  as  a  wife  man  would  not  blufih  to  take* 


OP    MR.  APBISOn's   STYLE*  121 

This  alfb  is  a  good  (cntcncc  and  expofed  to  no 
objection. 

Of  this  nature  are  thofe  of  the  imagination,  which  do  not 
require  fueh  a  bent  of  thought  as  is  neccffary  to  our  more  fe- 
rious  employments  ;  nor,  at  the  fame  time,fuffer  the  mind 
to  Jink  into  that  indolence  and  remiffnefs,  which  are  apt  to 
accompany  our  more  fenfual  delights  ,  but,  like  a  gentle  ex- 
ercife  to  the  faculties,  awaken  them  from  Jloth  and  idlenefst 
without  putting  them  upon  any  labour  or  difficulty. 

The  beginning  of  this  fentence  is  incorreft.  Of  this 
nature,  fay-s  he,  are  thofe  of  the  imagination.  It  might 
be  afked,  of  what  nature  ?  For  the  preceding  fentence 
had  not  defcribed  the  nature  of  any  clafs  of  pleafures. 
He  had  faid  that  it  v/as  every  man's  duty  to  make  the 
fphere  of  his  innocent  pleafures  as  extenfive,  as  poffi- 
ble,  that  within  this  fphere  he  might  find  a  fafe 
retreat  and  laudable  fatisfaclion.  The  tranfition 
therefore  is  loofely  made.  It  would  have  been 
better,  if  he  had  faid,  "This  advantage  we  gain,5' 
or  "  this  fatisfaftion  we  enjoy,"  by  means  of  the 
pleafures  of  the  imagination.  The  reft  of  the  fen- 
tence is  correct. 

We  might  here  add,  that  the  pleafures  of  the  fancy  are 
more  conducive  to  health  than  thofe  of  the  underfl  an  dingy 
which  are  worked  out  by  dint  of  thinking,  and  attended 
with  too  violent  a  labour  of  the  brain. 

Worked  out  by  dint  of  thinking  is  a  phrafe  which  bor- 
ders too  nearly  on  the  ftyle  of  common  conrerfation, 
to  be  admitted  into  polifhed  compofition. 

Delightful  fcenes,  whether  in  nature ',  paintings  or  poetry % 
have  a  kindly  influence  on  the  body,  as  well,  as  the  mind9 
and  not  only  ferve  to  clear  and  brighten  the  imagination^ 
M 


112  CRITICAL    EXAMINATION,    &C. 

but  are  able  to  difperfe  grief  and  melancholy,  and  to  fet  the 
animal  fpirits  in  pleafing  and  agreeable  motions.  For  this 
re  of  on,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  in  his  EJfay  upon  Healthy  has 
not  thought  it  improper  to  prefcribe  to  his  reader  a  poem  or 
a  profpecl,  where  he  particularly  dijfuades  him  from  knotty 
and  fubtile  difquifitions ,  and  advifes  him  to  purfue  ftudies 
that  fill  the  mind  with  fplendid  and  illuflrious  ebjecls}  as 
hi/lories,  fables,  and  contemplations  of  nature. 

In  the  latter  of  thefe  two  periods  a  member  is  out 
of  its  place.  Where  he  particularly  dijfuades  him  from 
knotty  and  fubtile  difquifitions  ought  to  precede  has  not 
thought  it  improper  to  prefcribe,  iofc. 

I  have  in  this  paper  y  by  way  of  introduction,  fettled  the 
notion  of  thofe  pleafures  of  the  imagination,  which  are  the 
fubjetl  of  my  prefent  undertaking,  and  endeavoured,  by  fev- 
eral  confiderations  to  recommend  to  my  readers  the  purfuit 
cf  thofe  p leaf u  res  ;  I  Jhall  in  my  next  paper  examine  the 
fever al  fources  from  whence  thefe  pleafures  are  derived. 

Thefe  two  concluding  fentences  furnifti  examples 
of  proper  collocation  of  circumflances.  We  former- 
ly fhowed  that  it  is  difficult  fo  to  difpofe  them,  as  not 
to  embarrafs  the  principal  fubjeft.  Had  the  follow- 
ing incidental  circumflances,  by  way  of  introduction- 
by  fever  al  confiderations— 'in  this  paper — in  the  next  pa- 
per, been  placed  in  any  other  fituation,  the  fentence 
would  have  been  neither  fo  neat,  nor  fo  clear,  as  it  is 
on  the  prefent  conftru&ion. 


ELOQUENCE.  123 


ELOQUENCE.       ORIGIN    OF    ELOQUENCE. 
GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.     DEMOSTHENES. 

ELOQUENCE  is  the  art  of  perfuafion.  Its  mod 
eflential  requifites  are  folic!  argument,  clear  method, 
and  an  appearance  of  fincerity  in  the  fpeaker,  with 
fuch  graces  of  ftyle  and  utterance,  as  command  at- 
tention. Good  fenfe  mud  be  its  foundation.  With- 
out this,  no  man  can  be  truly  eloquent  ;  fince  fools 
can  perfuade  none  but  fools.  Before  we  can  perfuade 
a  man  of  fenfe,  we  muft  convince  him.  Convincing 
and  perfuading,  though  fometimes  confounded,  are 
of  very  different  import.  Conviction  affects  the  un- 
derstanding only  5  perfuafion  the  will  and  the  practice. 
It  is  the  bufinefs  of  a  philofopher  to  convince  us  of 
truth  ;  it  is  that  of  an  orator  to  perfuade  us  to  act: 
conformably  to  it  by  engaging  our  affections  in  its  fa- 
vour. Conviction  is,  however,  one  avenue  to  the 
heart  5  and  it  is  that  which  an  orator  mud  firft  at- 
tempt to  gain  ;  for  no  perfuafion  can  be  (table,  which 
is  not  founded  on  conviction.  But  the  orator  mud 
not  be  fatisficd  with  convincing  -y  he  muft  addrefs 
himfelf  to  the  paflions  ;  he  mull:  paint  to  the  fancy, 
and  touch  the  heart.  Hence,  befide  folid  argument 
and  clear  method,  all  the  conciliating  and  interefting 
arts  of  compofition  and  pronunciation  enter  into  the 
idea  of  eloquence. 

Eloquence  may  be  confidered,  as  confiding  of  three 
kinds  or  degrees.  The  firfl  and  lowed  is  that  which 
aims  only  to  pleafe  the  hearers.     Such  in  general  is 


124  "iKLCNtTJENCE. 

the  eloquence  of  panegyrics,  inaugural  orations,  ael- 
drefies  to  great  men,  and  other  harangues  of  thi3  kind. 
This  ornamental  fort  of  compofition  may  innocently 
amufe  and  entertain  the  mind ;  and  may  be  mixed  at 
the  fame  time  with  very  ufeful  fentiments.  But  it 
mud  be  acknowledged,  that,  where  the  fpeaker  aims 
only  to  fliine  and  to  plcafe,  there  is  great  danger  of 
f  art  being  drained  into  oftentation,  and  of  the  compa* 
Ction  becoming  tirefome  and  infipid. 

The  fecond  degree  of  eloquence  is,  when  the  fpeak*. 
er  aims,  not  merely  to  pleafe,  but  alfo  to  inform,  to 
inftruft,  to  convince  ;  when  his  art  is  employed  in 
removing  prejudices  agairid  himfelf  and  his  caufe  ;  in 
felecting  the  moll  proper  arguments,  dating  them 
with  the  greated  force,  arranging  them  in  the  bed 
order,  exprefling  and  delivering  them  with  propriety 
and  beauty:  thereby  difpofing  us  to  pafs  that  judg- 
ment, or  favour  that  fide  of  the  caufe,  to  which  he. 
feeks  to  bring  us.  Within  this  degree  chiefly  is  em- 
ployed the  eloquence  of  the  bar. 

The  third  and  highed  degree  of  eloquence  is  that 
by  which  we  are  not  only  convinced,  but  interefted3 
agitated,  and  carried  along  with  the  fpeaker;  ourpaf- 
fions  rife  with  his  ;  we  (hare  all  his  emotions  \  we  love, 
we  hate,  we  refent,  as  he  infpires  us  \  and  are  prompt-, 
e'd  to  refolve,  or  to  acT;,  with  vigour  and  warmtho 
Debate  in  popular  aiTembiies  opens  the  mod  extenfive 
field  to  this  fpecies  of  eloquence  ;  and  the  pulpit  alfo 
admits  it. 

This  high  fpecies  of  eloquence  is  always  the  off- 
fpring  of  paffion.  By  paffion  we  mean  that  date  of 
mind,  in  which  it  is  agitated  and  fired  by  fome  objedi 
in  view.     Hence  the  univerfally  acknowledged  powet 


ORIGIN  OF   ELOQTJENCE.  1 25 

of  enthufiafm  in  public  fpeakers  for  affe&ing  their 
audience.  Hence  all  fludied  declamation  and  laboured 
ornaments  of  ftyle,  which  .(how  the  mind  to  be  cool 
and  unmoved,  are  inconfiftent  with  perfuafive  elo- 
quence. Hence  every  kind  of  affectation  in  gefture 
and  pronunciation  detracts  fo  much  from  the  weight 
of  a  fpeaker.  Hence  the  neceflity  of  being,  and  of  be- 
ing believed  to  be,  difinterefted  and  in  earned,  in  or- 
der to  perfuade. 

In  tracing  the  origin  of  eloquence  it  is  not  neceflary 
to  go  far  back  into  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  or  to 
fearch  for  it  among  the  monuments  of  Eaftern  or 
Egyptian  antiquity.  In  thofe  ages,  it  is  true,  there 
was  a  certain  kind  of  eloquence  ;  but  it  was  more 
nearly  allied  to  poetry,  than  to  what  we  properly  call 
oratory.  While  the  intercourfe  of  men  was  infre- 
quent, and  force  was  the  principal  mean  employed 
in  deciding  controverfies,  the  arts  of  oratory  and 
perfuafion,  of  reafoning  and  debate,  could  be  little 
known.  The  firft  empires  were  of  the  defpotic  kind. 
A  fingle  perfon,  or  at  moil  a  few,  held  the  reins  of 
government.  The  multitude  were  accuftomed  to  blind 
obedience  •,  they  were  driven,  not  perfuaded.  Con- 
fequently  none  of  thofe  refinements  of  fociety,  which 
make  public  fpeaking  an  obje£l  of  importance,  were 
introduced. 

Before  the  rife  of  the  Grecian  Republics  we  per- 
ceive no  remarkable  appearances  of  eloquence,  as  the 
art  of  perfuafion  ;  and  thefe  gave  it  fuch  a  field,  as  it 
never  had  before,  and  perhaps  has  never  had  again 
fince  that  time.  Greece  was  divided  into  many  little 
ftates.  Thefe  were  governed  at  firft  by  kings  ;  who 
being  for  their  tyranny  fucceflively  expelled  from  their 
Ms 


Il6  DEMOSTHENES, 

dominions,  there  fprung  up  a  multitude  of  democrat* 
ical  governments,  founded  nearly  upon  the  fame  plan3 
animated  by  the  fame  high  fpirit  of  freedom,  mutually 
jealous,  and  rivals  of  each  other.  Among  thefe  Athens 
was  mod  noted  for  arts  of  every  kind,  but  efpecially 
for  eloquence.  We  fhall  pafs  over  the  orators,  who 
flourifhed  in  the  early  period  of  this  republic,  and  take 
a  view  of  the  great  Demofthenes,  in  whom  eloquence 
fhone  with  unrivalled  fplendour.  Not  formed  by  na- 
ture either  to  pleafe  or  perfuade,  he  ftruggled  with^ 
and  furmounted,  the  moft  formidable  impediments. 
He  fhut  himfelf  up  in  a  cave,  that  he  might  ftudy  with 
lefs  diftraftion.  He  declaimed  by  the  fea-fliore, 
that  he  might  be  ufed  to  the  noife  of  a  tumultuous 
afTembly  ;  and  with  pebbles  in  his  mouth,  that  he 
might  corrett  a  defefl:  in  his  fpeech.  He  pra£tifed  at 
home  with  a  naked  fword  hanging  over  his  fhoulder, 
that  he  might  check  an  ungraceful  motion,  to  which 
he  was  fub)e£t.  Hence  the  example  of  this  great  man 
affords  the  highefl:  encouragement  to  every  iludent  of 
eloquence  j  fince  it  (how*  how  far  art  and  application 
availed  for -acquiring  an  excellence,  which  nature  ap<*. 
peared  willing  to  deny. 

No  orator  had  ever  a  finer  field  than  Demofthenes. 
in  his  Olynthiacs  and  Philippics,  which  are  his  capital: 
orations  i  and  undoubtedly  to  the  greatnefs  of  the  fub-- 
je£t,  and  to  that  integrity  and  public  fpirit,  which, 
breathe  in  them,  they  owe  much  of  their  merit.  The 
obje£t  is  to  roufe  the  indignation  of  his  countrymen; 
?.gamfl  Philip  of  Macedon,  the  public  enemy  of  the  lib-- 
erties  of  Greece  ;  and  to  guard  them  again  ft  the  infi- 
dious  mcaiures,by  wliich  that  crafty  prince  endeavour- 
ed to  lav  them  afleen  to  danger*  To  attain  this  end,  wo 


DEMOSTHENES.  IZf 

fee  Kim  ufing  every  proper  mean  to  animate  a  people, 
diftinguifhed  by  juftice,  humanity,  and  valour  j  but  in 
many  inftances  become  corrupt  and  degenerate.  He 
boldly  accufes  them  of  venality,  indolence,  and  indif- 
ference to  the  public  caufe  ;  while  at  the  fame  time 
he  reminds  them  of  the  glory  of  their  anceftors,  and  of 
their  prefent  refources.  His  cotemporary  orators, 
who  were  bribed  by  Philip,  and  perfuaded  the  people 
to  peace,  he  openly  reproaches,  as  traitors  to  their  coun- 
try. He  not  only  prompts  to  vigorous  meafures,but 
lays  down  the  plan  of  execution.  His  orations  are 
ftrongly  animated,  and  full  of  the  impetuofity  and  fire 
of  public  fpirit.  His  compontion  is  not  diftinguiflied. 
by  ornament  and  fplendour.  It  is  energy  of  thought, 
peculiarly  his  own,  which  forms  his  chara£ter,  and 
fets  him  above  all  others.  He  feems  not  to  attend  to 
words,  but  to  things.  We  forget  the  orator,  and  think 
of  the  fubjeft.  He  has  no  parade  ;  no  ftudied  intro- 
ductions ;  but  is  like  a  man  full  of  his  fubjeft,  who*,, 
after  preparing  his  audience  by  a  fentence  or  two  for 
hearing  plain  truths,  enters  diredly  on  bufinefs. 

The  ftyle  of  Demofthenes  is  ftrong  and  concife, 
though  fometimes.  harfh  and  abrupt.  His  words  are 
very  expreffive,  and  his  arrangement  firm  and  manly.. 
Negligent  of  litde  graces,  he  aims  at  that  fublime 
which  lies  in  fentiment.  His  a&ion  and  pronunciation 
were  uncommonly  vehement  and  ardent.  His  chara&er 
is  of  the  auftere^  rather  than  of  the  gentle  kind.  He 
is  always  grave,  ferious,  paffionate  -,  never  degrading 
himfelf,  nor  attempting  any  thing  like  pleafantry.  I£ 
his  admirable  eloquence  be  in  any  refpe£fc  faulty,  it  is 
in  this,  he  fometimes  borders  on  the  hard  and  dry. 
lie  may  be  thought  to  want  fmoothnefs  and  grace  y. 


128  RGMAN   ELOQUENCE. 

which  is  attributed  to  his  imitating  too  clofely  the 
manner  of  Thucydides,  who  was  his  great  model  for 
ftyle,  and  whofe  hiftory  he  tranfcribed  eight  times  with 
his  own  hand.  But  thefe  defedts  are  more  than  com- 
penfated  by  that  mafterly  foice  of  mafculine  eloquence, 
which,  as  it  overpowered  all  who  heard  it,  cannot 
in  the  prefent  day  be  read  without  emotion. 


ROMAN  ELOQUENCE.     CICERO.    MODERN 
ELOQUENCE. 

.HAVING  treated  of  eloquence  among  the 
Greeks,  we  now  proceed  to  confider  its  progrefs  among 
the  Romans  ;  where  we  (hall  find  one  model  at  lead 
of  eloquence  in  its  moil  fplendid  form.  The  Romans 
derived  their  eloquence,  poetry,  and  learning,  from  the 
Greeks  ;  and  were  far  inferior  to  them  in  genius  for 
all  thefe  accomplifhments.  They  had  neither  their 
vivacity,  nor  fenfibility  *,  their  pafficns  were  not  fo 
eafily  moved,  nor  their  conceptions  fo  lively  •,  in  com- 
parifon  with  them  they  were  a  phlegmatic  people. 
Their  language  refembled  their  character  ;  it  was  reg- 
ular, firm  and  (lately  \  but  wanted  that  expreffive  fim- 
plicity,  that  flexibility  to  fuit  every  different  fpecies  of 
compofition,  by  which  the  Greek  tongue  is  peculiarly 
diftinguifhed.  Hence  we  always  find  in  Greek  pro- 
ductions more  native  genius  \  in  Roman,  more  regu- 
larity and  art. 

As  the  Roman  government,  during  the  republic, 
was  of  the  popular  kind,  public  fpeaking  early  became 
the  mean  of  acquiring  power  and  diftin&ion.    But  in 


CICERO.  I2£ 

the  tmpolimcd  times  of  the  Rate  their  fpeaking  hardly 
deferved  the  name  of  eloquence.  It  was  but  a  fhort  time 
before  the  age  of  Cicero,  that  the  Roman  orators  rofe 
into  any  reputation.  CrafTus  and  Antonius  feem  to 
have  been  the  moft  eminent  ;  but,  as  none  of  their 
works  are  extant,  nor  any  of  Hortenfius's,  who  was 
Cicero's  rival  at  the  bar,  it  is  not  necefTary  to  trans- 
cribe what  Cicero  faid  of  them,  and  of  the  character 
of  their  eloquence. 

The  object,  moft  worthy  of  our  attention,  is  Cicero 
himfelf  $  whofe  name  alone  fuggefts  every  thing  fplen- 
did  in  oratory.  With  his  life  and  character  in  other 
refpects  we  are  not  at  prefent  concerned.  "We  (hall 
view  him  only  as  an  eloquent  fpeaker  -,  and  endeavour 
to  mark  both  his  virtues  and  defects.  His  virtues  are 
eminently  great.  In  all  his  orations  art  is  confpicuous. 
He  begins  commonly  with  a  regular  exordium,  and 
with  much  addrefs  prepofTeffes  the  hearers,  and  ftudies, 
to  gain  their  affections.  His  method  is  clear,  and  his 
arguments  arranged  with  great  propriety.  In  clearnefs 
of  method  he  has  advantage  over  Demoflhenes.  Every 
thing  is  in  its  proper  place  :  he  never  attempts  to  move 
before  he  has  endeavoured  to  convince  ;  and  in  mov- 
ing, particularly  the  fofter  paflions,  he  is  very  fuccefs- 
ful.  No  one  ever  knew  the  force  of  words  better 
than  Cicero*  He  rolls  them  along  with  the  greateft 
beauty  and  pomp  ;  and  in  the  ftructure  of  his  Sentences 
is  eminently  curious  and  exact.  He  is  always  full, 
and  flowing  ;  never  abrupt.  He  amplifies  every  things 
yet,  though  his  manner  is  on  the  whole  diffufe,  it  is 
often  happily  varied,  and  fuited  to  the  fubject.  When 
a  great  public  object:  roufed  his  mind,  and  demanded 
indignation  and  force,  he  departs  confiderably  frora 


I30  CICERO. 

that  loofe  and  declamatory  manner,  to  which  he  a£ 
other  times  is  addi&ed,  and  becomes  very  forcible  and 
vehement. 

This  great  orator,  however,  is  not  without  defers. 
In  mod  of  his  orations  there  is  too  much  art.  He 
feems  often  defirous  of  obtaining  admiration,  rather 
than  of  operating  convidlion.  He  is  fometimes  there- 
fore fhowy,  rather  than  folid  ;  and  diffufe,  where  he 
ought  to  be  urgent.  His  periods  are  always  round 
and  fonorous  j  they  cannot  be  accufed  of  monotony, 
for  they  poiTefs  variety  of  cadence  ;  but,  from  too 
great  fondnefs  for  magnificence,  he  is  fometimes  defi- 
cient in  ftrength.  Though  the  fervices  which  he 
performed  for  his  country,  were  very  confiderable, 
yet  he  is  too  much  his  own  panegyrifl.  Ancient 
manners,  which  impofed  fewer  redraints  on  the  iide 
of  decorum,  may  in  fome  degree  excufe,  but  cannot 
entirely  juftify  his  vantiy. 

Whether  Demodhenes  or  Cicero  were  the  mod 
perfect  orator  is  a  quedion,  an  which  critics  are  not 
agreed.  Fenelon,  the  celebrated  Archbifhop  of  Cam- 
bray,  and  author  of  Telemachus,  feems  to  have  dated 
their  merits  with  great  judice  and  perfpicuity.  His 
judgment  is  given  in  his  reflections  on  rhetoric  and 
poetry.  We  fhall  tranflate  the  pafTage,  though  not, 
it  is  feared,  without  lofing  much  of  the  fpirit  of  the 
original.  "  I  do  not  hefitate  to  declare,"  fays  he,  "  that 
"  I  think  Demodhenes  fuperior  to  Cicero.  I  am  per- 
"  fuaded,  no  one  can  admire  Cicero  more  than  I  do. 
u  He  adorns  whatever  he  attempts.  He  does  honour 
u  to  language.  He  difpofes  of  words  in  a  manner  pe- 
"  culiar  to  himfelf.  His  dyle  has  great  variety  of 
f [  character.     Whenever  he  pleafes,  he  is  even  concife 


fcOMAN    ELOQUENCE.  I33 

**  and  vehement ;  for  inftance,  againft  Catiline,  againft 
Ai  Verres,  againft  Anthony.  But  ornament  is  too  vifi- 
u  ble  in  his  writings.  His  art  is  wonderful,  but  it  is 
€i  perceived.  When  the  orator  is  providing  for  the 
*f  fafcty  of  the  republic,  he  forgets  not  himfelf,  nor 
<c  permits  others  to  forget  him.  Demofthenes  feems 
u  to  efcape  from  himfelf,  and  to  fee  nothing  hut  his 
M  country.  He  feeks  not  elegance  of  expreffion  j 
"  unfought,  he  pofTeffes  it.  He  is  fuperior  to  admira* 
"  tion.  He  makes  ufe  of  language,  as  a  modeft  man 
"  does  of  drefs,  only  to  cover  him.  He  thunders, 
u  he  lightens.  He  is  a  torrent  which  carries  every 
"  thing  before  it.  We  cannot  criticife,  becaufe  wc 
**  are  not  ourfelves.  His  fubjeft  enchains  our  atten- 
<c  tion,  and  makes  us  forget  his  language.  We  lofe 
"  him  from  our  fight  ;  Philip  alone  occupies  our 
M  minds.  I  am  delighted  with  both  thefe  orators  ; 
i(  but  I  confefs  that  I  am  lefs  affefted  by  the  infinite 
u  art  and  magnificent  eloquence  of  Cicero,  than  by 
**  the  rapid  (implicit  y  of  Demofthenes." 

The  reign  of  eloquence  among  the  Romans  was 
very  fnort.  It  expired  with  Cicero.  Nor  can  we 
wonder  at  this  ;  for  liberty  was  no  more,  and  the 
government  of  Rome  was  delivered  over  to  a  fucceflion 
of  the  moil  execrable  tyrants  that  ever  difgraced  and 
fcourged  the  human  race. 

In  the  decline  of  the  Roman  Empire  the  introduc- 
tion of  Chriftianity  gave  rife  to  a  new  kind  of  eloquence 
in  the  apologies,  fermons,  and  paftoral  writings  of  the 
fathers.  But  none  of  them  afforded  very  juft  models 
of  eloquence.  Their  language  as  foon  as  we  defcend 
to  the  third  or  fourth  century,  becomes  harfli ;  and 
they  are  generally  infeded  with  the  tafte  of  that  age, 


t^%  MODERN   ELOQUENCE. 

a  love  of  fwollen  and  drained  thoughts,  and  of  the  play 
of  words., 

As  nothing  in  the  middle  ages  deferves  attention, 
wc  pafs  now  to  the  ftate  of  eloquence  in  modern  times* 
Here  it  mud  be  conferled,  that  in  no  European  nation 
public  fpeaking  has  been  valued  fo  highly,  or  cultivated* 
■with  fo  much  care,  as  in  Greece  or  Rome.  The  ge- 
nius of  the  world  appears  in  this  refpeft  to  have  un- 
dergone fome  alteration.  The  two  countries,  where 
we  might  expect  to  find  moft  of  the  fpirit  of  eloquence, 
are  France  and  Great  Britain  ;  France  on  account  of 
the  diftinguifhed  turn  of  its  inhabitants  toward  all  the 
liberal  arts,  and  of  the  encouragement  which  more 
than  a  century  paft  thefe  arts  have  received  from  the 
public  ;  Great  Britain  on  account  of  its  free  govern- 
ment, and  the  liberal  fpirit  and  genius  of  its  people. 
Yet  in  neither  of  thefe  countries  has  oratory  riien 
nearly  to  the  degree  of  its  ancient  fplendour. 

Several  reafons  may  be  given,  why  modern  eloquence 
has  been  fo  confined  and  humble  in  its  efforts.  In 
the  firft  place,  it  feems,  that  this  change  mud  in  part 
be  afcribed  to  that  accurate  turn  of  thinking,  which 
has  been  fo  much  cultivated  in  modern  times.  Our 
public  fpeakers  are  obliged  to  be  more  referved  than 
the  ancients,  in  their  attempts  to  elevate  the  imagina- 
tion, and  warm  the  pafiions  ;  and  by  the  influence  of 
prevailing  tafte  their  own  genius  is  chaftened  perhaps 
in  too  great  a  degree,  ft  is  probable  alfo,  that  We  af- 
cribe  to  our  correct nefs  and  good  fenfe,  what  is  chief- 
ly owing  to  the  phlegm  and  natural  coldnefs  of  our 
difpofition.  For  the  vivacity  and  fenfibility  of  the 
Greeks  and  Romans,  efpecially  of  the  former,  feem 
to  have  been  much  fuperior  to  ours,  and  to  have  giv- 
en them  a  higher  relilh  for  all  the  beauties  of  oratory, 


MODERN    ELOQUENCE.  133 

Though  the  Parliament  of  Great  Britain  is  the  no- 
bled  field  which  Europe  at  prefent  affords  to  a  public 
fpeaker,  yet  eloquence  has  ever  been  there  a  more  fee- 
ble initrument  than  in  the  popular  affemblies  of  Greece 
ajid  Rome.  Under  fome  foreign  reigns  the  iron  hand 
of  arbitrary  power  checked  its  efforts  ;  and  in  later 
times  minifterial  influence  has  generally  rendered  it  of 
fmall  importance.  At  the  bar  our  difadvantage  in 
comparifon  with  the  ancients  is  great.  Among  them 
the  judges  were  commonly  numerous  ;  the  laws  were 
few  and  fimple  \  the  decifion  of  caufes  was  left  in  a 
great  meafure  to  equity  and  the  fcnfe  of  mankind. 
Hence  the  field  for  judicial  eloquence  was  ample. 
But  at  prefent  the  fyflem  of  law  is  much  more  com- 
plicated. The  knowledge  of  it  is  rendered  fo  labori- 
ous, as  to  be  the  ftudy  of  a  man's  life.  Speaking  is 
therefore  only  a  feeondary  accompliih  merit,  for  which 
he  has  little  leifure. 

With  refpect  to  the  pulpit  it  has  been  a  great  dif- 
advantage, that  the  practice  of  reading  fermons  in- 
ftead  of  repeating  them  has  prevailed  fo  univerfally  in 
md.  This  indeed  may  have  introduced  accura- 
cy ;  but  eloquence  has  been  much  enfeebled.  Anoth- 
er circumftance  too  has  been  prejudicial.  The  fecla- 
ries  and  fanatics  before  the  reftoration  ufed  a  warm, 
zealous,  and  popular  manner  of  preaching  j  and  their 
adherents  afterward  continued  to  diftinguiih  them-' 
felves  by  fimilar  ardour.  Hatred  of  thefe  feels  drove 
the  eftablifhed  church  into  the  oppofite  extreme  of  a 
ftudied  coolnefs  of  expreifion.  Hence  from  the  art 
of  perfuafion,  which  preaching  ought  ever  to  be,  it 
has  palled  in  England  into  mere  reafoning  and  in- 
ftrutlion. 

N 


& 


?34        ELOQUENCE   OF   POPULAR    ASSEMBLIES* 

ELOQUENCE  OF  POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES. 


A  HE  foundation  of  every  fpecies  of  eloquence,  is 
good  fenfe  and  folid  thought.  It  (hould  be  the  firfl: 
ftudy  of  him,  who  means  to  addrefs  a  popular  afTem- 
fcly,*to  be  previoufly  matter  of  the  bufinefs  on  which 
he  is  to  fpeak ;  to  be  well  provided  with  matter  and 
argument  5  and  to  reft  upon  thefe  the  chief  flrefs. 
This  will  give  to  his  difcourfe  an  air  of  manlinefs 
and  ftrength,  which  is  a  powerful  inftrumcnt  of  per- 
fuafion.  Ornament,  if  he  have  genius  for  it,  will 
fucceed  of  courfe  \  at  any  rate  it  deferves  only  fec- 
pndary  regard. 

To  become  a  perfuafive  fpeaker  in  a  popular  affem- 
foly,  it  is  a  capital  rule,  that  a  man  fhould  always  be 
perfuaded  of  whatever  he  recommends  to  others. 
Never,  if  it  can  be  avoided,  fhould  he  efpoufe  that 
fide  of  an  argument,  which  he  does  not  believe  to  be 
the  right.  All  high  eloquence  mud  be  the  offspring 
of  paflion.  This  makes  every  man  perfuafive,  and 
gives  a  force  to  his  genius  which  it  cannot  otherwise 
poffefs. 

Debate  in  popular  afiemblies  feldom  allows  a  fpeak- 
er that  previous  preparation  which  the  pulpit  always, 
and  the  bar  fometimes,  admits.  A  general  prejudice 
prevails,  and  not  an  unjuft  one,  againft  fet  fpeeches 
in  public  meetings.  At  the  opening  of  a  debate  they 
may  fometimes  be  introduced  with  propriety  \  but,  as 
the  debate  advances,  they  become  improper  ;  they 
}ofe  the  appearance  of  being  fuggeftcd  by  the  bufinefs 


ELOQUENCE   OF    POPULAR    ASSEMBLIES,  i$$ 

that  is  going  on.  Study  and  oftentation  are  apt  to 
be  vifible  j  and,  confequently,  though  admired  as  eJe- 
gant,  they  are  feldom  fo  perfuafive  as  more  free  and 
unconstrained  difcourfes. 

This,  however,  does  not  forbid  premeditation,  on 
what  we  intend  to  fpeak.  With  refpect  to  the  matter 
we  cannot  be  too  accurate  in  our  preparation  ;  but 
with  regard  to  words  and  expreflions  it  is  very  poflible 
fo  far  to  overdo,  as  to  render  our  fpeech  (tiff  and  pre* 
cife.  Short  notes  of  the  fubftance  of  the  difcourfe 
are  not  only  allowable,  but  of  confiderable  fervice,  to 
thofe  efpecially,  who  are  beginning  to  fpeak  in  public. 
They  will  teach  them  a  degree  of  accuracy,  which,  if 
they  fpeak  frequently,  they  are  in  danger  of  lofing. 
They  wili  accuftom  them  to  diftinct  arrangement, 
without  which,  eloquence,  however  great,  cannot  pro- 
duce entire  conviction. 

Popular  afTemblies  give  fcope  for  the  moft  animat- 
ed manner  of  public  fpeaking.  Paffion  is  eafily  excit- 
ed in  a  great  affembly,  where  the  movements  are  com- 
municated by  mutual  fympathy  between  the  orator 
and  the  audience.  That  ardour  of  fpeech,  that  vehe- 
mence and  glow  of  fentiment,  which  proceed  from  a 
mind  animated  and  infpired  by  fome  great  and  public 
object,  form  the  peculiar  character  of  popular  elo- 
quence in  its  higheft  degree  of  perfection. 

The  warmth,  however,  which  we  exprefs/  mud  be 
always  fuited  to  the  fubject ;  fince  it  would  be  ridicu- 
lous to  introduce  great  vehemence  into  a  fubject  of 
fmall  importance,  or  which  by  its  nature  requires  to 
be  treated  with  calmnefs.  We  muft  alfo  be  careful 
not  to  counterfeit  warmth  without  feeling  it.  The 
bed  rule  is,  to  follow  nature  j  and  never  to  attempt  a 


I36         ELOQUENCE   OF    POPULAR    ASSEMBLIES. 

ftrain  of  eloquence  which  is  not  prompted  by  our  own- 
geniite.  A  fpeaker  may  acquire  reputation  and  influ- 
ence by  a  calm,  argumentative  manner.  To  reach  the 
pathetic  and  fublime  of  oratory  requires  thofe  flrong 
fenfibilities  of  mind,  and  that  high  power  of  expreilion, 
which  are  given  to  few. 

'Even  when  vehemence  is  juPdfied  by  the  fubjecT:, 
and  prompted  by  genius ;  when  warmth  is  felt,  not 
feigned  5  we'muft  be  cautious,  left  impetuofky  tranf* 
:port  us  too  far.  If  the  fpeaker  lofe  command  of  him* 
felfj  he  will  foon  lofe  command  cf  his  audience.  He 
muft  begin  with  moderation^  and  iludy  to  warm  his 
hearers  gradually  and  equally  with  himfelf.  For,  if 
their  paiRons  be  not  in  unifon  with  his,  the  difcord 
will  foon  be  felt.  Refpe£t  for  his  audience  fhould  al- 
ways lay  a  decent  reftraint  upon  his  warmth,  and  pre* 
vent  it  from  carrying  him  beyond  proper  limits. 
When  a  fpeaker  is  fo  far  mailer  of  himfelf,  as  to 
preferve  clofe  attention  to  argument,  and  even  to  foma 
jc  of  accurate  expreffion  ;  this  feif-command,  this 
effort  of  reafon  in  the  midft  of  paffion,  contributes 
in  the  higheft  degree  both  to  pleafe  and  to  perfuade. 
advantages  of  paflkm  are  afforded  for  the  pur* 
pofes  of  perfusion  without  that  confufion  and  difor* 
der  which  are  its  ufual  attendants. 

In  the  moil  animated  ftrain  of  popular  fpeaking  we 
muft  always  regard  what  the  public  ear  will  receive 
without  difguft.  Without  attention  to  this,  imitation 
of  ancient  orators  might  betray  a  fpeaker  intoabold- 
nefs  of  manner,  with  which  the  coolnefs  of  modern 
ta*te  would  be  difpleafed.  It  is  alfo  necefTary  to  at- 
tend with  care  to  the  decorums  of  time,  place  and 
character.     No  ardour  of  eloquence  can  atone  for  ne* 


ELOQUENCE  OF   THE   BAR.  T35 

gle£l  of  thefe.  No  one  ihould  attempt  to  fpeak  in 
public  without  forming  to  himfelf  a  juft  and  flricl; 
idea  of  what  is  fuitable  to  his  age  and  charafter  j  what 
is  fuitable  to  the  fubjecT:,  the  hearers,  the  place,  and 
the  occafion.  On  this  idea  he  fhould  adjuit  the  whole 
train  and  manner  of  his  fpeaking. 

What  degree  of  concifenefs  or  difFufenefs  is  fuited 
to  popular  eloquence,  it  is  not  eafy  to  determine  with 
precilion.  A  difFufe  manner  is  generally  confidered 
as  mod  proper.  There  is  danger,  however,  of  erring 
in  this  refpe£l  ;  by  too  diffufe  a  ftyle  public  fpeakers 
often  lofe  more  in  point  of  ftrength,  than  they  gain 
by  fulnefs  of  illuftration.  Exceffive  concifenefs  in- 
deed mull  be  avoided.  We  muft  explain  and  incul- 
cate i  but  confine  ourfelves  within  certain  limits. 
We  (hould  never  forget  that,  however  we  may  be 
plea  fed  with  hearing  ourfelves  fpeak,  every  audience 
may  be  tired  •,  and  the  moment  they  grow  weary,  our 
eloquence  becomes  ufelefs.  It  is  better,  in  general, 
to  fay  too  little,  than  too  much  j  to  place  our  thought 
in  one  ftrong  point  of  view,  and  reft  it  there,  than  by 
(bowing  Jt  in  every  light,  and  pouring  forth  a  profu- 
sion of  words  upon  it,  to  exhauft  the  attention  of  our 
hearers,  and  leave  them  languid  and  fatigued. 


ELOQUENCE    OF    THE   BAR. 

X  HE  ends  of  fpeaking  at  the  bar  and  in  pop* 
ular  afTemblies  are  commonly  different.     In  the  latter 
the  orator  aims  principally  to  perfuade  \  to  determine 
N  %. 


138  ELOQUENCE   OF   THE   BAR, 

his  hearers  to  fome  choice  or  conduct,  as  good,  ft,. 
or  ufeful.  He,  therefore,  applies  himfelf  to  every; 
principle  of  a£Hon  in  our  nature ;  to  the  paflions  and 
to  the  heart,  as  well  as  to  the  underftanding.  But  at 
the  bar  conviction  is  the  principal  object.  There  tha 
fpeaker's  duty  is  not  to  perfuade  the  judges  to  what 
is  good  or  ufeful,  but  to  exhibit  what  is  juft  and  true  ; 
and  confequently  his  eloquence  is  chiefly  addrevTed  to 
the  underftanding. 

At  the  bar  fpeakers  addrefs  theinfelves  to  one,  or 
to  a  few  judges,  who  are  generally  perfons  of  age, 
gravity,  and  dignity  of  character.  There  thofe  ad- 
vantages which  a  mixed  and  numerous  afiembly  af«» 
fords  for  employing  all  the  arts  of  fpeech,  are  not  en-* 
joyed.  PafFion  does  not-rife  fo  eafily.  The  fpeaker 
is  heard  with  more  coolnefs  ;  he  is  watched  with  more 
feverity ;  and  would  expofe  himfelf  to  ridicule,  by  at- 
tempting that  high  and  vehement  tone,  v^hich  is  fuit-r 
ed  only  to  a  multitude.  Befide  at  the  bar,  the.  fieldr 
of  fpeaking  is  confined  within  law  and  ftatute.  Im-5 
agination  is  fettered.  The  advocate  has  always  before, 
him  the  line,  the  fquare,  and  the  co-npafa.  Thefeit 
is  his  chief  bufinefs  to  be  conftantly  applying  to  the 
fubjects   under  debate. 

Hence  the  eloquence  of  the  bar  is  of  a  much  more 
limited,  more  fober,  and  chaftifed  kind,  than  that  of 
popular  aflemblies  ;  and  confequently  the  judicial 
orations  of  the  ancients  muft  not  be  confidered  as 
exact  «nodels  of  that  kind  of  fpeaking  which  is  adapt- 
ed to  the  prefent  ftate  of  the  bar.  With  them  ftrict 
law  was  much  lefs  an  object  of  attention,  than  it  is 
with  us.  In  the  days  of  Demofthenes  and  Cicero  th$ 
municipal  ftatutes  were  few,,    fimple  and  general  £ 


ELOQUENCE   OF   THE   BAtli  T39; 

;   and  the  decifion  of  caufes  was  left  in  a  great  meafure 
(   to  the  equity  and  common  fenfe  of  the  judges.     Elo* 
■    quence,  rather  than  jurifprudence,  was  the   ftudy  of 
I   pleaders.     Cicero  fays,  that  three  months'  ftudy  would 
1    make  a  complete  civilian  ;  nay,  it  was  thought  that  a 
man  might  be  a  good  pleader  without  any  previous 
!    ftudy.     Among  the  Romans  there  was  a  fet  of  men,, 
called   Pragmatic'h  whofe  office  it  was  to  fupply  the 
orator  with  all  the  law  knowledge  his  caufe  required  ; 
which  he  difpofed  in  that  popular  form,  and  decorated 
with  thofe  colours  of  eloquence  which  were  moil  fit- 
ted for  influencing  the  judges. 

It  may  alfo  be  obferved,  that  the  civil  and  criminal 
-judges  in  Greece  and  Rome  weremore  numerous 
than  with  us,  and  formed  a  kind  of  popular  aflembly* 
The  celebrated  tribunal  of  the  Areopagus  at  Athens 
confifted  of  fifty  judges  at  leaft.  In  Rome  the  Judices. 
Se/ecli  were  always  numerous,  and  had  the  ofHce  and 
power  of  judge  and  jury*  In  the  famous  caufe  of 
Milo,  Cicero  fpoke  to  fifty-one  Judices  Sefecli,  and 
thus  had  the  advantage  of  addrefling  his  whole  plead- 
ing, not  to  one  or  a  few  learned  judges  of  the  point 
of  law,  as  is  the  cafe  with  us,  but  to  an  afTembly  of. 
Roman. citizens.  Hence*  thofe  arts  of  popular  elo- 
quence*  which  he  employed  with  fuch  fuccefs.. 
Hence  certain .  practices,  which  would  be  reckoned 
theatrical  by  us,  were  common  at  the  Roman  bar  j, 
fuch  as  introducing  not  only  the  accufed  perfon  dreiTr 
ed  in  deep  mourning,  but  prefenting  to  the  judges  his. 
family  and  young,  children,  endeavouring  to  excite 
pity  by  their  cries  and  tears. 

The  foundation  of  a  lawyer's  reputation  and  fuccefs 
aft  be  laid  in  a  profound  knowledge  of  his  profeffioru- 


*4<*  ELOQUENCE    OF   THE    BA38U 

If  his  abilities,  as  a  fpeaker,  be  ever  fo  eminent  %  yerV 
if  his  knowledge  of  the  law  be  fuperficial,  few  will: 
choofe  to  engage  him  in  their  defence.  Befide  pre- 
vious (tudy  and  an  ample  flock  of  acquired  knowl- 
edge, another  thing  inseparable  from  the  fuccefs  of 
every  pleader,  is  a  diligent  and  painful  attention  to 
every  caute  with  which  he  is  entrufted  *,  to  all  the 
fa£ls  and  circumftances  with  which  it  is  connected. 
Thus  he  will  in  a  great  rneafure  be  prepared  for  the 
arguments  of  his  opponent  -f  and,  being  previoufly  ac- 
quainted with  the  weak  parts  of  his  own  caufe,  he 
will  be  able  to  fortify  them  in  the  beft  manner  againft 
the  attack  of  his  adverfary. 

Though  the  ancient  popular  and  vehement  manner 
of  pleading  is  now  in  a  great  rneafure  fuperfeded,  we 
xnuft  not  infer  that  there  is  no  room  for  eloquence 
at  the  bar,  and  that  the  ftudy  of  it  is  fuperfluous. 
There  is  perhaps  no  fcene  of  public  fpeaking,  where^ 
eloquence  is  more  requifite.  The  drynefs  and  fub- 
tilty  of  fubjecls  ufually  agitated  at  the  bar,  require^ 
mpre  than  any  other,  a  certain  kind  of  eloquence,  in 
order  to  command  attention  y  to  give  weight  to  the 
arguments  employed,  and  to  prevent  what  the  plead- 
er advances  from  palling  unregarded^  The  effect 
of  good  fpeaking  is  always  great.  There  is  as  much 
difference  in  the  irnpreflicn  made  by  a  cold,  dry  and; 
confufed  fpeaker,  and  that  made  by  one  who  pleads 
the  fame  caufe  with  elegance,  order  and  ftrength, 
as  there  is  between  our  conception  of  an  object,  when; 
prefented  in  twilight,  and  when  viewed  in  the  efftuV 
gence  of  noon. 

Purity  and  neatnefs  of  expreflion  is  in  this  fpecies 
of  eloquence  chiefly  to  be  fludied  ;  a  ftyle  perfpicuous 


ELOQUENCE   OF   THE   BAR.  I4T 

*nd  proper,  not  needlefsly  overcharged  with  the  ped- 
antry of  law  terms,  nor  affectedly  avoiding  thefe^ 
when  fuitable  and  requifite.  Verbofity  is  a  fault  cf 
which  men  of  this  profeffion  are  frequently  accufed  j 
into  which  the  habit  of  fpeaking  and  writing  nattily* 
and  with  little  preparation,  almoft  unavoidably  betrays- 
them.  It  cannot  therefore  be  too  earneflly  recom- 
mended to  thofe,  who  are  beginning  to  praclife  at  the 
bar,  that  they  early  guard  againil  this,  while  they  have 
leifure  for  preparation.  Let  them  form  themfelves  to 
the  habit  of  a  flrong  and  correct  ftyle  ;  which  will 
become  natural  to  them  afterward,  when  compelled 
by  multiplicity  of  bufinefs  to  compofe  with  precipita- 
tion. Whereas,  if  a  loofe  and  negligent  ftyle  have 
been  fuffered  to  become  familiar,  they  will  not  be 
able,  even  upon  occafions  when  they  with  to  make  an 
unulual  effort,  to  exprefs  themfelves  with  force  and* 
elegance. 

Diftin£inefs  in  fpeaking  at  the  bar  is  a  capital  prop* 
erty.  It  (hould  be  fhown  fir  ft  In  ftating  the  queilion  > 
in  exhibiting  clearly  the  point  in  debate  ;  what  we  ad* 
xnit ;  what  we  deny  ;  and  where  the  line  of  divifioa 
begins  between  us  and  the  adverfe  party.  Next,  it 
fhould  appear  in  the  order  and  arrangement  of  all  the 
parts  of  the  pleading*  A  clear  method  is  of  the  high* 
eft  confequence  in  every  fpecies  of  oration  ;  but  in 
thofe  intricate  cafes,  which  belong  to  the  bar,  it  is 
infinitely  effential. 

Narration  of  fa£ts  fhould  always  be  as  concife  as 
the  nature  of  them  will  admit  They  are  always  very 
aeceffary  to  be  remembered  ;  confequently  unneceffary 
■minutenefs  in  relating  them  overloads  the  memory* 
[Whereas,  if  a  pleader  omit  all  fuperfluous  circum* 


142  ELOCJUEKCE   OF'  THE   BAR, 

fiances  in  his  recital,  he  adds  flrength  to  the  matet 
fafts  5  gives  a  clearer  view  of  what  he  relates,  and 
makes  the  impreffion  of  it  more  lading.  In  argu- 
mentation, however,  a  more  diiTufe  manner  fee  ens 
requilite  at  the  bar  than  on  feme  other  occafions. 
For  in  popular  afTembiies,  where  the  fubject  of  debate 
is  often  a  plain  qireftion,  arguments  gain  flrength  by 
concifenefs.  But  the  intricacy  of  law  points  frequent- 
ly requite*  the  arguments  to  be  expanded  and  placed 
hi  different  lights,  in  order  to  be   fully  apprehended. 

Candour  in  flating  the  arguments  of  his  adveifarjr 
cannot  be  too  much  recommended  to  every  pleader. 
If  he  difguife  them,  or  place  them  in  a  falfe  light,  the 
artifice  will  foon  be  difcovered  j  and  the  judge  and 
the  hearers  will  conclude,  that  he  either  wants  dis- 
cernment to  perceive,  or  faimefs  to  admit  the  flrength 
of  his  opponent's  reafoning.  But,  if  he  ftate  with  ac- 
curacy and  candour  the  arguments  ufed  again  ft  him, 
before  he  endeavour  to  combat  them,  a  ftrong  preju- 
dice is  created  in  his  favour.  He  will  appear  to  have 
entire  confidence  in  his  caufe,  fince  he  does  not  at- 
tempt to  fupport  it  by  artifice  or  concealment.  The 
judge  will  therefore  be  inclined  to  receive  more  readi- 
ly the  impreffions  made  upon  him  by  a  fpeaker  who 
appears  both  fair  and  penetrating. 

Wit  may  fometimes  be  fervkeable  at  the  bar,  par- 
ticularly in  a  lively  reply,  by  which  ridicule  is  thrown 
on  what  an  adverfary  has  advanced.  But  a  young 
pleader  fhould  never  reft  his  flrength  on  this  dazzling 
talent.  His  office  is  not  to  excite  laughter,  but  to 
produce  conviction  ;  nor  perhaps  did  any  one .  ever 
rife  to  an  eminence  in  his  profeffion  by  being  a  witty 
'  lawyer. 


*tX><^J£NCE   OF   THE   PULPIT.  1 43 

Since  an  advocate  perfonates  his  client,  he  muft 
plead  his  caufe  with  a  proper  degree  of  warmth.  He 
muft  be  cautious  however  of  proftituting  his  earneft- 
jiefs  and  fenfibility  by  an  equal  degree  of  ardcur  on 
every  fubjeel:.  There  is  a  dignity  of  character,  which 
it  is  highly  important  for  every  one  of  this  profeffion 
to  fupport.  An  opinion  of  probity  and  honour  in  a 
pleader  is  his  mod  powerful  inftrument  of  perfuafion. 
He  mould  always,  therefore,  decline  embarking  in 
saufes  which  are  odious  and  manifefdy  unjuft  ;  and, 
when  he  fupports  a  doubtful  caufe,  lie  fhould  lay  the 
chief  ftrefs  upon  thofe  arguments  which  appear  to 
him  to  be  mod  forcible ;  referving  his  zeal  and  in- 
dignation for  cafes  where  injuftice  and  iniquity  arc 
flagrant. 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  FULPIT. 

XxAVING  treated  of  the  eloquence  of  popu- 
lar aflemblies,  and  of  that  of  the  bar,  we  {hall  now 
confider  the  ftrain  and  fpirit  of  that  eloquence  which 
is  fuited  to  the  pulpit.  This  field  of  public  fpeaking 
has  feverai  advantages  peculiar  to  itfclf.  The  dignity 
and  importance  of  its  fubje&s  muft  be  allowed  to  be 
fuperior  to  any  other.  They  admit  the  higheft  em- 
bellifhment  in  defcription,  and  the  greatefl  warmth 
and  vehemence  of  expreflion.  In  treating  his  fubjeel 
the  preacher  has  alfo  peculiar  advantages.  He  fpeaks 
not  to  one  or  a  few  judges,  but  to  a  large  afiembly. 
He  is  not  afraid  of  interruption.  He  choofes  his  fub- 
jeel; at  kifure ;  and  has  all  the  alMance'of  the  mod 


144  ELOQUENCE   OF   THE   PULPIT. 

accurate  premeditation.  The  difadvantages,  "however, 
which  attend  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit,  are  not  in* 
confiderable.  The  preacher,  it  is  true,  has  no  conten- 
tion with  an  adverfary ;  but  debate  awakens  genius, 
and  excites  attention.  His  fubjecls,  though  noble, 
are  trite  and  common.  They  are  become  fo  familial: 
to  the  public  ear,  that  it  requires  no  ordinary  genius 
in  the  preacher  to  fix  attention.  Nothing  is  more 
difficult  than  to  beftow  on  what  is  common  the  grace 
of  novelty.  Befides,  the  fubjeft  of  the  preacher  ufu- 
ally  confines  him  to  abftracl:  qualities,  to  virtues  and 
vices  ;  whereas,  that  of  other  popular  fpeakers  leads 
them  to  treat  of  perfons  ;  which  is  generally  more  in- 
terefting  to  the  hearers,  and  occupies  more  powerful- 
ly the  imagination.  We  are  taught  by  the  preacher 
to  deteft  only  the  crime ;  by  the  pleader  to  deteft  the 
criminal.  Hence  it  happens  that,  though  the  number 
of  moderately  good  preachers  is  great,  fo  few  have 
arrived  at  eminence.  Perfe&ion  is  Very  diflant  from 
modern  preaching.  The  objecT:,  however,  is  truly 
noble,  and  worthy  of  being  purfued  with  zeal. 

To  excel  in  preaching,  it  is  necefTary  to  have  a  fix- 
ed and  habitual  view  of  its  objecft.  This  is  to  per- 
fuade  men  to  become  good.  Every  fermon  ought 
therefore  to  be  a  perfuafive  oration.  It  is  not  to  dif- 
cufs  fome  abilrufe  point,  that  the  preacher  afcends 
the  pulpit.  It  is  not  to  teach  his  hearers  fomething 
new,  but  to  make  them  better;  to  give  them  at  once 
clear  views  and  perfuafive  impreilions  of  religious 
truths. 

The  principal  charafteriftics  of  public  eloquence, 
as  diftinguifhed  from  the  other  kinds  of  public  fpeak- 
ing,  appear  to  be  thefe  two,  gravity  and  warmth.    It 


ELOQUENCE  OF   THE   PULPIT.  I45 

Is  neither  eafy  nor  common  to  unite  thefe  chara&ers 
of  eloquence.  The  grave,  when  it  is  predominant, 
becomes  a  dull,  uniform  folemnity.  The  warm,  when 
it  wants  gravity,  borders  on  the  light  and  theatrical. 
A  proper  union  of  the  two,  forms  that  character  of 
preaching,  which  the  French  call  OnBion ;  that  af- 
fecting, penetrating,  and  interefting  manner,  which 
flows  from  a  ftrong  fenfe  in  the  preacher  of  the  im- 
portance of  the  truths  he  delivers,  and  an  earneft  de- 
fire  that  they  may  make  full  impreffion  on  the  hearts 
of  his  hearers. 

A  fermon,  as  a  particular  fpecies  of  compofition, 
requires  the  ftricteft  attention  to  unity.  By  this  we 
mean  that  there  mould  be  fome  main  point  to  which 
the  whole  tenor  of  the  fermon  fhall  refer.  It  mud 
not  be  a  pile  of  different  fubje£ts  heaped  upon  each 
other ;  but  one  objedl  muft  predominate  through  the 
whole.  Hence,  however,  it  muft  not  be  underftood, 
that  there  mould  be  no  divifions  or  feparate  heads  in 
a  difcourfe ;  nor  that  one  (ingle  thought  only  (hould 
be  exhibited  in  difFerent  points  of  view.  Unity  is 
not  to  be  underftood  in  fo  limited  a  fenfe  ;  it  admits 
fome  variety  ;  it  requires  only  that  union  and  con- 
nexion be  fo  far  preferved,  as  to  make  the  whole  con- 
cur in  fome  one  impreffion  on  the  mind.  Thus,  for 
inftance,  a  preacher  may  employ  feveral  difFerent  ar- 
guments to  enforce  the  love  of  God  ;  he  may  alfo 
inquire  into  the  caufes  of  the  decay  of  this  virtue ; 
ftili  one  great  objett  is  prefented  to  the  mind.  But 
if,  becaufe  his  text  fays,  "  He  that  loveth  God,  muft 
£  love  his  brother  alfo,"  he  mould  therefore  mix  in 
the  fame  difcourfe  arguments  for  the  love  of  God 
and  for  the  love  of  our  neighbour,  he  would  grofslf 


I46  ELOQUENCE   OF    THE   PtXLPiT. 

offend  againft  unity,  and  leave  a  very  confufed  impfcf- 
ilon  on  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 

Sermons  are  always  more  {Inking,  and  generally 
more  ufeful,  the  more  precife  and  particular  the  fubjefl: 
of  them  is.  Unity  can  never  be  fo  perfect  in  a  gen- 
eral, as  in  a  particular  fubjecT;.  General  fubjecls,  in- 
deed, fuch  as  the  excellency  or  the  pleafures  of  relig- 
ion, are  often  chofen  by  young  preachers,  as  the  mod 
fhowy,  and  the  eafieft  to  be  handled  ;  but  thefe  fub- 
jeds  produce  not  the  high  effe&s  of  preaching.  At- 
tention is  much  more  commanded  by  taking  fome  par- 
ticular view  of  a  great  fubje£t,  and  employing  on  that 
the  whole  force  of  argument  and  eloquence.  To  rec- 
ommend fome  one  virtue,  or  inveigh  againft  a  partic- 
ular vice,  affords  a  fubject  not  deficient  in  unity  or 
precifion.  But,  if  that  virtue  or  vice  be  confidered 
as  affuming  a  particular  afpedl:  in  certain  characters 
or  certain  fituations  in  life,  the  fubject  becomes  (till 
more  interefting.  The  execution  is  more  difficult, 
but  the  merit  and  the  effect  are  higher. 

A  preacher  mould  be  cautious  not  to  exhauft  his 
fubjedl-,  fince  nothing  is  more  oppofite  to  perfuafion, 
than  unneceffary  and  tedious  fulnefs.  There  are  al- 
ways fome  things  which  he  may  fuppofe  to  be  known, 
and  fome  which  require  only  brief  attention.  If  he 
endeavour  to  omit  nothing  which  his  fubjecl:  fuggefts, 
he  muft  unavoidably  encumber  it,  and  din^iniih  its 
force. 

To  render  his  inftru&ions  interefting  to  his  hearers 
fhouid  be  the  grand  objedT:  of  every  preacher.  He 
fhouid  bring  home  to  their  hearts  the  truths  which  he 
inculcates,  and  make  each  fuppofe  himfelf  particular- 
ly addreffed.     He  fhouid  avoid  ail  intricate  reafonings  •, 


ELOOJJENCE  OF   THE   PULPIT.  I47 

avoid  expreffing  himfelf  in  general,  fpeculative  propo- 
rtions ;  or  laying  down  practical  truths  in  an  abdract, 
metaphyfical  manner.  A  difcourfe  ought  to  be  car- 
ried on  in  the  drain  of  direct  acldrefs  to  the  audience  j 
not  in  the  drain  of  one  writing  an  effay,  but  one 
fpeaking  to  a  multitude,  and  ftudying  to  connect: 
what  is  called  application,  or  what  immediately  refers 
to  practice,  with  the  doctrinal  parts  of  the  fermon. 

It  is  always  highly  advantageous  to  keep  in  view 
the  different  ages,  characters,  and  conditions  of  men, 
and  to  accommodate  directions  and  exhortations  to 
each  of  thefe  different  claffes.  Whenever  you  advance 
what  touches  a  man's  character,  or  is  applicable  to  his 
circumdances,  ycu  are  fure  of  his  attention.  No  dudy 
is  more  neceffary  for  a  preacher,  than  the  fludy  of 
human  life,  and  of  the  human  heart.  To  difcover  a 
man  to  himfelf  in  a  light,,  in  which  he  never  faw  his 
character  before,  produces  a  wonderful  effect.  Thofc 
fermons,  though  the  mod  difficult  in  compofition, 
arc  not  only  the  mod  beautiful,  but  alfo  the  mod 
ufeful  which  are  founded  on  the  illudration  of  fome 
peculiar  character,  or  remarkable  piece  of  hidory  hi 
the  facred  writings  y  by  purfuing  which  we  may  trace, 
and  lay  open,  fome  of  the  mod  fecret  windings  of  the 
human  heart.  Other  topics  of  preaching  are  become 
trite  ;  but  this  is  an  extenfive  field  which  hitherto  has 
been  little  explored,  and  poffeffes  all  the  advantages 
of  being  curious,  new,  and  highly  ufeful.  Bifhop 
Butler's  fermons  on  the  charaEler  of  Balaam  is  an 
example  of  this  kind  of  preaching. 

Fadiicn,  which  operates  fo  exteniively  on  human 
manners,  has  given  to  preaching  at  different  times  a 
change  of  character.     This  however  is.  a  torrent  whic% 


T48  CONDUCT  OP  A   DISCOXHISI. 

fwells  to-day  and  fubfides  to-morrow.  Sometimes 
poetical  preaching  is  fafhionable  j  fometimes  philo- 
fophical.  At  one  time  it  muft  be  all  pathetic  •,  at 
another  all  argumentative  ;  as  fome  celebrated  preach-* 
er  has  fet  the  example.  Each  of  thefe  modes  is  very  de- 
fective 5  and  he  who  conforms  himfelf  to  it,  will  both 
confine  and  corrupt  his  genius.  Truth  and  good  fenfe 
are  the  fole  bafis,  on  which  he  can  build  with  fafety. 
Mode  and  humour  are  feeble  and  unfteady.  No  ex- 
ample fhould  be  fervilely  imitated.  From  various 
examples  the  preacher  may  collect  materials  for  im- 
provement \  but  fervility  of  imitation  extinguiflies  all 
genius^  or  rather  proves  entire  want  of  it. 


m 


■yywm 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE  IN  ALL 
ITS  PARTS.  INTRODUCTION,  DIVISION* 
NARRATION,  AND  EXPLICATION. 

.HAVING  already  confidered  what  is  pecu- 
liar to  each  of  the  three  great  fields  of  public  fpeak- 
ing,  popular  aflemblies,  the  bar,  and  the  pulpit,  we 
(hail  new  treat  of  what  is  common  to  them  all,  and 
explain  the  conduG  of  a  uifcourfe  or  oration  in 
general. 

The  parts  which  compofe  a  regular  oration  are 
thefe  fix  ;  the  exordium  or  introduction  5  the  ftate  or 
the  divifion  of  the  fubjeel: ;  narration  or  explication  ; 
the  reafoning  or  arguments ;  the  pathetic  part ;  ajnd 
the  conclufion.  It  is  not  neceflary  that  each  of  thefe 
enter  into  every  public  difcourfe,  nor  that  they  ak 


INTRODUCTION.  149 

ways  enter  in  this  order.  There  are  many  excellent 
difcourfes  in  which  fome  of  thefe  parts  are  omitted. 
But,  as  they  are  the  condiment  parts  of  a  regular  o- 
ration,  and  as  in  every  difcourfe  fome  of  thern  muft 
occur,  it  is  agreeable  to  our  prefent  purpofe,  to  ex- 
amine each  of  them  diftindtly. 

The  defign  of  the  introduction  is  to  conciliate  the 
good  will  of  the  hearers  ;  to  excite  their  attention  ; 
and  to  render  them  open  to  perfuafion.  When  a 
fpeaker  is  previoufly  fecure  of  the  good  will,  atten- 
tion, and  docility  of  his  audience  ;  a  formal  introduc- 
tion may  be  omitted.  Refpect  for  his  hearers  will  in 
that  cafe  require  only  a  fhort  exordium,  to  prepare 
them  for  the  other  parts  of 'his  difcourfe. 

The  introduction  is  a  part  of  a  difcourfe,  which  re- 
quires no  fmall  care.  It  is  always  important  to  begin 
well ;  to  make  a  favourable  impreffion  at  firft  fetting 
out,  when  the  minds  of  the  hearers,  as  yet  vacant  and 
free,  are  more  eafily  prejudiced  in  favour  of  the  fpeak- 
er. We  muft  add,  alfo,  that  a  good  introduction  is 
frequently  found  to  be  extremely  difficult.  Few  parts 
of  a  difcourfe  give  more  trouble  to  the  compofer,  or 
require  more  delicacy  in  the  execution. 

Aa  introduction  fhould  be  eafy  and  natural.  It 
fhould  always  be  fuggefted  by  the  fubjecl.  The  wri- 
ter (hould  not  plan  it  before  he  has  meditated  in  his 
own  mind  the  fubftance  of  his  difcourfe.  By  taking 
the  oppofite  courfe,  and  composing  in  the  firft  place 
an  introduction,  the  writer  will*  often  find  that  he  is 
either  led  to  lay  hold  of  fome  common- place  topic,  or 
that  inftead  of  the  introduction  being  accommodated 
to  the  difcourfe,  he  is  under  the  neceflity  of  accom- 
modating the  difcourfe  to  the  introduction. 
O  2 


150  INTRODUCTION* 

In  this  part  of  a  difcourfe  corre&nefs  of  expreffior* 
fliould  be  carefully  fludied.  This  is  peculiarly  requi- 
fite  on  account  of  the  fituation  of  the  hearers.  At  the 
beginning  they  are  more  difpofed  to  criticife,  than  at 
any  other  period  ;  they  are  then  occupied  by  the  fub^ 
je£t  and  the  arguments  ;  their  attention  is  entirely  di- 
rected to  the  fpeaker's  flyle  and  manner.  Care  there- 
fore is  requifite  to  prepoffefs  them  in  his  favour  £ 
though  too  much  art  mull  be  cautioufly  avoided,  fince 
it  will  then  be  more  eafily  detected,  and  will  derogate 
from  that  perfuafion,  which  the  other  parts  of  the 
difcourfe  are  intended  to  produce. 

Modefty  is  alfo  an  indifpenfable  chara&eriftic  of  a 
good  introduction.  If  the  fpeaker  begin  with  an  air 
of  arrogance  and  orientation,  the  felf-love  and  pride 
of  his  hearers  will  be  prefently  awakened,  and  follow 
him  with  a  very  fufpicious  eye  through  the  reft  of  his 
difcourfe.  His  modefty  fliould  appear  not  only  in  his 
exprefhon,  but  in  his  whole  manner  •,  in  his  looks,  in. 
his  geftures,  and  in  the  tone  of  his  voice.  Every  au- 
dience is  pleafed  with  thofe  marks  of  refpecT:  and  awe 
which  are  paid  by  the  fpeaker.  The  modefty  however 
of  an  introduction  (houid  bqtray  nothing  mean  or  ah-. 
]tct.  Together  with  modefty  and  deference  to  his; 
hearers, 'the  orator  mould  fhow  a  certain  fenfe  of  dig- 
r<ity>  ^rifirjg  Tram'  peituafion  of  the  juftice  or  import- 
ance of  his  fubiecfe 

Particular  cafe t;  excepted,  tjie  orator  mould  not  put 
forth  all  his  ftrength  at'the  beginning;  but  it  fliould 
rife  and  grow  upon  his  hearers,  as  his  difcourfe  ad- 
vances. The  introduction  is  feldom  the  place  for  ve- 
hemence and  pafiion.  The  audience  muft  be  gradual- 
ly  prepared,  before  the  fpeaker  venture  on  ftrong  and 


INTRODUCTION.  15* 

paffionate  fentiments.  Yet,  when  the  fubje&  is  fuch 
that  the  very  mention  of  it  naturally  awakens  fome 
paflionate  emotion  ;  or  when  the  unexpected  prefence 
of  fome  perfon  or  object  in  a  popular  affembly  inflames, 
the  fpeaker  ;  either  of  thefe  will  juftify  an  abrupt  and 
vehement  exordium.  Thus  the  appearance  of  Catiline- 
in  the  fenate  renders  the  violent  opening  of  Cicero's 
firft  oration  again  ft  him  very  natural  and  proper. 
"  Quoufque  tandem,  Catalina,  abutere  patientia  nof- 
**  tra  ?"  Bifhop  Atterbury,  preaching  from  this  text, 
u  BleiTed  is  he,  whofoever  (hall  not  be  offended  in  me,'* 
ventures  on  this  bold  exordium  :  "  And  can  any  man 
"  then  be  offended  in  thee,  bleffed  Jefus  r"  Which 
addrefs  to  our  Saviour  he  continues,  till  he  enters  on 
the  divifion  of  his  fubjeft.  But  fuch  introductions, 
ihould  be  attempted  by  very  few,  fince  they  promife 
fo  much  vehemence  and  ardour  through  the  reft  of  the 
difcourfe,  that  it  is  extremely  diflicult  to  fatisfy  the 
expe&ation  of  the  hearers. 

An  introduction  fhould  not  anticipate  any  material 
part  of  the  fubjec-t.  When  topics  or  arguments,  which 
are  afterward  to  be  enlarged  upon,  are  hinted  at,  and 
in  part  exhibited  in  the  introduction;  they  lofe  upon 
their  fecond  appearance  the  grace  of  novelty.  The 
impreffion,  intended  to  be  made  by  any  capital  thought, 
is  always  made  with  greateft  advantage,  when  it  is 
made  entire,  and  in  its  proper  place. 

An  introduction  fhould  be  proportioned  in  length 
and  kind  to  the  difcourfe  which  follows  it.  In  length, 
as  nothing  can  be  more  abfurd  than  to  ere£l  a  large 
portico  before  a  fmall  building ;  and  in  kind,  as  it  is 
no  lefs  abfurd  to  load  with  fuperb  ornaments  the 
portico  of  a  plain  dwelling-houfe  5  or  to  make  the  ap- 
proach to  a  monument  as  gay  as  that  to  an  arbour* 


i$z  division. 

After  the  introdu&ion,  the  proposition  or  enuncia- 
tion of  the  fubjeft,  commonly  fucceeds ;  concerning- 
which  we  (hall  only  obferve,  that  it  fhould  be  clear 
and  diftinti,  and  exprefied  without  affe&ation  in  the 
mod  concife  and  fimple  manner.  To  this  generally 
fucceeds  the  divifion,  or  laying  down  the  method  of 
the  difcourfe ;  in  the  management  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing rules  mould  be  carefully  obierved. 

Firft,  The  parts,  into  which  the  fubjecT:  is  divided*, 
muft  be  really  diftin£fc  from  each  other.  It  were  aw 
abfurd  divifion,  for  example,  if  a  fpeaker  mould  pro- 
pofe  to  explain  firft  the  advantages  of  virtue,  and  next 
thofe  of  juftice  or  temperance  ;  becaufe  the  firft  head- 
plainly  comprehends  the  fecond,  as  a  genus  does  the 
fpecies.  Such  a  method  of  proceeding  involves  the 
fubjefl  in  confuficn. 

Secondly,  We  mud  be  careful  always  to  follow  the- 
order  of  natures  beginning  with  the  mod  fimple 
points ;  with  fuch  as  are  moll  eafily  underftood,  and 
neceffary  to  be  firft  difcufied  ;  and  proceeding  to  thofe 
which  are  built  upon  the  former,  and  fuppofe  them 
to  be  known.  The  fubjecT:  muft  be  divided  into  thofe 
parts  into  which  it  is  mo  ft  eafily  and  naturally  re* 
folved. 

Thirdly,  The  members  of  a  divifion  ought  to  ex- 
hauft  the  fubjecT: ;  otherwife  the  divifion  is  incom- 
plete ;  the  fubjed  is  exhibited  by  pieces  only,  with- 
out difplaying  the  whole. 

Fourthly,  Let  concifenefs  and  precifionbe  peculiarly 
(ludied.  A  divifion  always  appears  to  moft  advan- 
tage, when  the  feveral  heads  are  exprefied  in  the 
cleared,  moft  forcible^  and  feweft  words  poffible. 
This  never  fails  to  ftrike  the  hearers  agreeably  j  and 


NARHATION    OR    EXPLICATION.  I53 

contributes  alfo  to  make  the  divifions  more  eafily  re- 
membered. 

Fifthly,  Unneceffary  multiplication  of  hea^s  mould 
be  cautioufly  avoided.  To  divide  a  fubjeft  into  many 
minute  parts,  by  endlefs  divifions  and  fubdivifions, 
produces  a  bad  effect  in  fpeaking.  In  a  logical  treatife 
this  may  be  proper  ;  but  it  renders  an  oration  hard  and 
dry,  and  unneceffarily  fatigues  the  memory.  A  fer- 
mon  may  admit  from  three  to  five  or  fix  heads, 
including  fubdivifions  \  feldom   are  more  allowable. 

The  next  conftkuent  part  of  a  difcourfe  is  narra- 
tion or  explication.  Thefe  two  are  joined  together, 
becaufe  they  fall  nearly  under  the  fame  rules,  and  be- 
caufe  they  generally  anfwer  the  fame  purpofe  ;  ferv- 
ing  to  illuftrate  the  caufe,  or  the  fubjecT:,  of  which  one 
treats,  before  proceeding  to  argue  on  one  fide  or  the 
other ;  or  attempting  to  intereft  the  paffions  of  the 
hearers. 

To  be  clear  and  diftin£t,  to  be  probable,  and  to  be 
concife,  are  the  qualities  which  critics  chiefly  require 
in  narration.  Diftin&nefs  is  requifite  to  the  whole  of 
the  difcourfe,  but  belongs  efpecially  to  narration,  which 
ought  to  throw  light  on  all  that  follows.  At  the  bar, 
a  fa£t,  or  a  fingle  circumftance,  left  in  obfeurity,  or 
mifunderftood  by  the  judge,  may  deftroy  the  efFe£i  of 
all  the  argument  and  reafoning  which  the  pleader  em- 
ploys. If  his  narration  be  improbable,  it  will  be  dis- 
regarded ;  if  it  be  tedious  and  diffufe,  it  will  fatigue 
and  be  forgotten.  To  render  narration  diftinft,  par- 
ticular attention  is  requifite  in  ascertaining  clearly  the 
names,  dates,  places,  and  every  other  important  cir- 
cumftance of  the  fads  recounted.  In  order  to  be 
probable  in  narration,  it  is   neceflary  to  exhibit  thfc 


rj4  NARRATION    OR   EXPLICATION^ 

characters  of  the  perfons  of  whom  we  fpeak,  andija 
fhow  that  their  actions  proceeded  from  fuch  ia»ot*^s 
as  are  natural,  and  likely  to  gain  belief;  To  be  as 
concife  as  the  fubjecl;  will  admit,  all  fuperfluous  cir-r 
cumftances  mud  be  rejected  ;  by  which  the  narration 
will  be  rendered  more  forcible  and  more  clear. 

In  fermons,  explication  of  the  fubjecl;  to  be  dif- 
courfed  oa  occupies  the  place  of  narration  at  the  bar* 
and  is  to  be  conducted  in  a  Omilar  manner.  It  mud 
be  conciie,  clear,  and  diftincl  ;  in  a  ftyle  correct  and- 
elegant,  rather  than  highly  adorned.  To  explain  the 
doctrine  of  the  text  with  propriety;  to  give  a  full  and. 
clear  account  of  the  nature  of  that  virtue  or  duty 
which  forms  the  fubjecl  of  difcourfe,  is  properly  th,e 
didactic  part  o£  preaching  ;  on  the  right  execution  of 
which  much  depends.  In  order  to  fucceed,  the, 
preacher  mud  meditate  profoundly  on  the  fubjecl; ;  fa 
as  to  place  it  in  a  clear  and  ftriking  point  of  view, 
He  muffc  con fider  what  light  it  may  derive  from  other 
palfages  of  fcripture  ;  whether  it  be  a  fubjecl:  nearly, 
allied  to  fome  other,  from  which  it  ought  to  be  dif- 
tinguifned  ;  whether  it  can  be  advantageoufly  illus- 
trated by  comparing  or  cppofing  it  to  fome  other, 
tiling  ;  by  fearching  into  caufes,  or  tracing  effects  ;  by. 
pointing  out  examples,  or.  appealing  to  the  hearts  of  the. 
hearers  ;  that  thus  a  prccife  and  circumftantial  view 
may  be  afforded  of  the  doctrine  inculcated.  By  dif- 
tinct  and  apt  illufcrations  of  the  known  truths  of  re- 
ligion, a  preacher  may  both  difplay  great  merit,  as  a 
cornpofer,  and,  what  is  infinitely  more  valuable,  ren- 
der his  difcourfes  weighty,  inftructive,  and  ufefuJL 


THE    ARGUMENTATIVE   PART,  &C.  155 


0Y*. '. 


THE  ARGUMENTATIVE  PART  OF  A  DIS- 
COURSE,  THE  PATHETIC  PART,  AND 
THE  PERORATION. 

jl\S  the  great  end  for  which  men  fpeak  on 
any  ferious  occafion,  is  to  convince  their  hearers  that 
fomcthing  is  true,  or  right,  or  good,  and  thus  to  in- 
fluence their  practice  j  reafon  and  argument  mull 
conftitute  the  foundation  of  all  manly  and  perfuafive 
eloquence. 

With  regard  to  arguments,  three  things  are  rcquifite. 
Tird,  invention  of  them  ;  fecondiy,  proper  difpofition 
and  arrangement  of  them  -,  and  thirdly,  expreffing 
them  in  the  mod  forcible  manner.  Invention  is  un- 
doubtedly the  molt  material,  and  the  bafis  of  the  reft. 
But  in  this,  art  can  afford  only  fmall  affiftance.  It 
can  aid  a  fpeaker  however  in  arranging  and  expreffing 
thofe  arguments  which  his  knowledge  of  the  fubjedt 
has  difcovered* 

Suppofing  the  arguments  properly  chofen,  we  mutt 
avoid  blending  thofe  together  that  are  of  a  feparate 
nature.  All  arguments  whatever  are  intended  to 
prove  one  of  thefe  three  things  ;  that  fomething  is 
true  -,  that  it  is  right  or  fit  ;  or  that  it  is  profitable 
and  good.  Truth,  duty,  and  intereft  are  the  three 
great  fubje£ts  of  difcuflion  among  men.  But  the  ar- 
guments employed  upon  either  of  them  are  generally 
diftin<2  ;  and  he  who  blends  them  all  under  one  top- 
ic which  he  calls  his  argument,  as  in  fermons  is  too 
frequently  done,  will  render  his  reafoning  indiftinft 
and  inelegant. 


I56  THE   ARGUMENTATIVE  PART 

With  refpe&  to  the  different  degrees  of  ftrength 
in  arguments,  the  common  rule  is,  to  advance  in  the 
way  of  climax  from  the  weakeft  to  the  moll  forcible. 
This  method  is  recommended  when  the  fpeaker  is 
convinced  that  his  caufe  is  clear,  and  eafy  to  be  prov- 
ed. But  this  rule  mud  not  be  univerfally  obferved. 
If  he  diftruft  his  caufe,  and  have  but  one  material  ar- 
gument, it  is  often  proper  to  place  this  argument  in 
the  front ;  to  prejudice  his  hearers  early  in  his  favour, 
and  thus  difpofe  them  to  pay  attention  to  the  weaker 
reafons  which  he  may  afterward  introduce.  When 
amid  a  variety  of  arguments  there  is  one  or  two  more 
feeble  than  the  reft,  though  proper  to  be  ufed,  Cicero 
advifes  to  place  them  in  the  middle,  as  a  fituation  lefs 
confpicuous,  than  either  the  beginning  or  end  of  the 
train  of  reafoning. 

When  arguments  are  ftrong  and  fatisfaftory, 
the  more  they  are  feparated  the  better.  Each  can 
then  bear  to  be  introduced  alone,  placed  in  its  full 
light,  amplified  and  contemplated.  But,  when  they 
are  of  a  doubtful  or  prefumptive  nature,  it  is  fafer  to 
crowd  them  together,  to  form  them  into  a  phalanx, 
that,  though  individually  weak,  they  may  mutually 
f up  port  each  other. 

Arguments  fhould  never  be  extended  too  far,  nor 
multiplied  too  much.  This  ferves  rather  to  render  a 
caufe  fufpicious,  than  to  increafe  its  ftrength.  A  need- 
lefs  multiplicity  of  arguments  burdens  the  memory, 
and  diminifhes  the  weight  of  that  convi&ion  which  a 
few  well  chofen  arguments  produce.  To  expand  them 
ftlfo  beyond  the  bounds  of  reafonable  illuftration,  is  al- 
ways  enfeebling.  When  a  fpeaker  endeavours  to  ex- 
pofe  a  favourable  argument  in  every  light  poffible,  fa* 


OF    A    DISCOURSE.  1 57 

tigued  by  the  effort,  he  lofes  the  fpirit,  with  which  he 
fct  out ;  and  ends  with  feeblenefs,  what  he  began 
with  force. 

Having  attended  thus  far  to  the  proper  arrangement 
of  arguments,  we  proceed  to  another  efTential  part  of 
a  difcourfe,  the  pathetic  ;  in  which,  if  any  where,  elo- 
quence reigns  and  exerts  its  power.  On  this  head 
the  following  directions  appear  ufeful. 

Confider  carefully  whether  the  iubje£fc  admit  the 
pathetic,  and  render  it  proper ;  and,  if  it  do,  what  part 
of  the  difcourfe  is  mod  fit  for  it.  To  determine  thefe 
points  belongs  to  good  fenfe.  Many  fubjetts  admit 
not  the  pathetic  ;  and  even  in  thofe  that  are  fufcep- 
tible  of  it,  an  attempt  to  excite  the  paflions  in  a  wrong 
place  may  expofe  an  orator  to  ridicule.  It  may  in 
general  be  obferved,  that,  if  we  expeft  any  emotion 
which  we  raife,  to  have  a  lading  effect,  we  muft  fe- 
cure  in  our  favour  the  underftanding  arid  judgment. 
The  hearers  mud  be  fatisfied  that  there  are  fufficient 
grounds  for  their  engaging  in  the  caufe  with  zeal  and 
ardour.  When  argument  and  reafoning  have  produc- 
ed their  full  effecT:,  the  pathetic  is  admitted  with  the 
greateft  force  and  propriety. 

A  fpeaker  mould  cautioufly  avoid  giving  his  hearer* 
warning  that  he  intends  to  excite  their  pafiions. 
Every  thing  of  this  kind  chills  their  fenfibility.  There 
is  alfo  a  great  difference  between  telling  the  hearers 
that  they  ought  to  be  moved,  and  actually  moving 
them.  To  every  emotion  or  paflion  nature  has  adapt- 
ed certain  correfponding  objects  ;  and  without  fetting 
thefe  before  the  mind,  it  is  impoffible  for  an  orator  to 
P 


I58  THE  PATHETIC   PART. 

excite  that  emotion.  We  are  warmed  with  gratitude* 
we  are  touched  with  compaflion,  not  when  a  fpeaker 
(hows  us  that  thefe  are  noble  difpofitions,  and  that  it 
is  our  duty  to  feel  them  5  nor  when  he  exclaims  againft 
us  for  our  indifference  and  coldnefs.  Hitherto  he  has 
addreffed  only  our  reafon  or  confeience.  He  mull 
defcribe  the  kindnefs  and  tendernefs  of  our  friend; 
he  muft  exhibit  the  diftrefs  fuffered  by  the  perfon 
for  whom  he  would  intereft  us.  Then,  and  not  before, 
our  hearts  begin  to  be  touched,  our  gratitude  or  com- 
panion begins  to  flow.  The  bafis,  therefore,  of  all  fuc- 
cefsful  execution  in  pathetic  oratory,  is  to  paint  the 
objeft  of  that  paflion  which  we  defire  to  raife,  in  the 
mod  natural  and  linking  manner ;  to  defcribe  it  with 
fuch  circumftances  as  are  likely  to  awaken  it  in  the 
jninds  of  others. 

To  fucceed  in  the  pathetic,  it  is  neceflary  to  attend 
to  the  proper  language  of  the  paflions.  This,  if  we 
confult  nature,  we  (hall  ever  find  is  unaffe&ed  and 
fimple.  It  may  be  animated  by  bold  and  ftrong  fig- 
ures, but  it  will  have  no  ornament,  nor  finery.  There 
is  a  great  difference  between  painting  to  the  imagina- 
tion and  to  the  heart.  The  one  may  be  done  with  de- 
liberation and  coolnefs  ;  the  other  muft  always  be  rapid 
and  ardent.  In  the  former,  art  and  labour  may  be  fuf- 
fered to  appear  ;  in  the  latter  no  proper  efFeft  can  be 
produced,  unlefs  it  be  the  work  of  nature  only.  Hence 
all  digreffions  ftiould  be  avoided  which  may  interrupt 
or  turn  afide  the  fwell  of  paflion.  Hence  comparifons 
are  always  dangerous,  and  commonly  quite  improper 
in  the  midft  of  the  pathetic.  It  is  alfo  to  be  obferved, 
that  violent  emotions  cannot  be  lading.    The  pathetic 


THE   PERORATION.  1 59 

therefore  fliould  not  be  prolonged  too  much.  Due  re- 
gard fhould  always  be  preferved  to  what  the  hearers 
will  bear ;  for  he  who  attempts  to  carry  them  farther 
in  paffion  than  they  will  follow  him,  fruftrates  his 
purpofe.  By  endeavouring  to  warm  them  too  much, 
he  takes  the  fureft  method  of  freezing  them  com- 
pletely. 
*  Concerning  the  peroration  or  conclufion  of  a  dif- 
courfe, a  few  words  will  be  fufficient.  Sometimes  the 
whole  pathetic  part  comes  in  moft  properly  at  the  con- 
clufion. Sometimes,  when  the  difcourfe  has  been  al- 
together argumentative,  it  is  proper  to  conclude  with 
fumming  up  the  arguments,  placing  them  in  one  view, 
and  leaving  the  impreffion  of  them  full  and  ftrong  on 
the  minds  of  the  hearers.  For  the  great  rule  of  a 
conclufion,  and  what  nature  obvioufly  fuggefts,  is,  place 
that  laft  on  which  you  choofe  to  reft  the  ftrength  of 
your  caufe. 

In  every  kind  of  public  fpeaking  it  is  important  to 
hit  the  precife  time  of  concluding ;  to  bring  the  dif- 
courfe jufl  to  a  point ;  neither  ending  abruptly  and 
unexpectedly,  nor  difappointing  the  expectation  of 
the  hearers,  when  they  look  for  the  end  of  the  dif- 
courfe. 

The  fpeaker  fhould  always  clofe  with  dignity  and 
fpirit,  that  the  rninds  of  the  hearers  may  be  left  warm, 
and  that  they  may  depart  with  a  favourable  impreffion 
of  the  fubjefl;  and  of  himfelf. 


l6o  PRONUNCIATION    OR  DELIVERY. 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 

JL  HE  great  objects  to  which  every  public 
fpeaker  mould  direct  his  attention  in  forming  his  deliv- 
ery, are,  firft,  to  fpeak  fo  as  to  be  fully  and  eafily  under- 
ftood  by  his  hearers  ;  and  next,  to  exprefs  himfelf  with 
fuch  grace  and  energy  as  to  pleafe  and  to  move  them. 

To  be  fully  and  eafily  underflood,  the  chief  requifites 
are,  a  due  degree  of  loudnefs  of  voice,  diftin£tnefs, 
flownefs,  and  propriety  of  pronunciation. 

To  be  heard  is  undoubtedly  the  firft  requifite.  The 
fpeaker  mud  endeavour  to  fill  with  his  voice  the  fpacc 
occupied  by  the  affembly.  Though  this  power  of  voice 
is  in  a  great  meafure  a  natural  talent,  it  may  receive 
confiderable  afliftance  from  art.  Much  depends  on  the 
proper  pitch  and  management  of  the  voice.  Every  man 
has  three  pitches  in  his  voice ;  the  high,  the  mid* 
die,  and  the  low.  The  high  is  ufed  in  calling  aloud  to 
fome  one  at  a  cliftance  ;  the  low  approaches  to  a  whif- 
per ;  the  middle  is  that  which  is  employed  in  common 
converfation,  and  which  fhould  generally  be  ufed  iu 
public  fpeaking.  For  it  is  a  great  error  to  fuppofe 
that  the  higheft  pitch  of  the  voice  is  requifite  to  be  well 
heard  by  a"  great  affembly.  This  is  confounding  two 
things  materially  different,  loudnefsor  ftrength  of  found 
with  the  key  or  note  on  which  we  fpeak.  The  voice 
may  be  rendered  louder  without  altering  the  key ;  and 
the  fpeaker  will  always  be  able  to  give  mod  body,  mod 
perfevering  force  of  found,  to  that  pitch  of  voice  to 
which  in  converfation  he  h  accuftomed.     Whereas,  i£ 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY.  l6l 

he  begin  on  the  higheft  key,  he  will  fatigue  himfelf,  and 
fpeak  with  pain;  and,  wherever  a  man  fpeaks  with  pain 
to  himfelf,  he  is  always  heard  with  pain  by  his  audience. 
Give  the  voice  therefore  full  ftrength  and  fwell  of  found; 
but  always  pitch  it  on  your  ordinary  fpeaking  key ;  a 
greater  quantity  of  voice  fhould  never  be  uttered  than 
can  be  afforded  without  pain,  and  without  any  extraor- 
dinary effort.  To  be  well  heard,  it  is  ufeful  for  a 
fpeaker  to  fix  his  eye  on  fome  of  the  molt  diftantper- 
fons  in  the  affembly,  and  to  confider  himfelf  as  fpeak- 
ing to  them.  We  naturally  and  mechanically  utter 
our  words  with  fuch  ftrength  as  to  be  heard  by  one 
to  whom  we  addrefs  ourfelves,  provided  he  be  within 
the  reach  of  our  voice.  This  is  the  cafe  in  public  fpeak- 
ing, as  well  as  in  common  converfation.  But  it  mud 
be  remembered,  that  fpeaking  too  loudly  is  peculiarly 
offenfive.  The  ear  is  wounded  when  the  voice  comes 
upon  it  in  rumbling,  indiftincl;  maffes  ;  befide,  it  ap- 
pears as  if  affent  were  demanded  by  mere  vehemence 
and  force  of  found. 

To  being  well  heard  and  clearly  underftood,  diftincT:- 
nefs  of  articulation  is  more  conducive,  perhaps,  than 
mere  loudnefs  of  found.  The  quantity  of  found  requi- 
fite  to  fill  even  a  large  fpacc,  is  lefs  than  is  commonly 
fuppofed-,  with  diftincl:  articulation  a  man  of  a 
weak  voice  will  make  it  extend  farther  than  the  ftrong- 
eft  voice  can  reach  without  it.  This  therefore  demands 
peculiar  attention.  The  fpeaker  mufl:  give  every  found 
its  due  proportion,  and  make  every  fyllable,  and  even 
every  letter,  be  heard  diftin&ly.  To  fucceed  in  this, 
rapidity  of  pronunciation  mufl  be  avoided.  A  lifelefs, 
drawling  method  however  is  not  to  be  indulged.    To 

P   2, 


1 62  PRONUNCIATION    OH   DELIVERY. 

pronounce  with  a  proper  degree  of  flownefs  and  with 
full  and  clear  articulation  cannot  be  too  induftrioufly 
ftudied,  nor  too  earneftly  recommended.  Such  pronun- 
ciation gives  weight  and  dignity  to  a  difcourfe.  It  affifts 
the  voice  by  the  paufes  and  refts  which  it  allows  it 
more  eafily  to  make ;  and  it  enables  the  fpeaker  to, 
fvvell  all  his  founds  with  more  energy  and  more  mufic. 
It  affifts  him  alfo  in'  preferving  a  due  command  of 
himfelf  5  whereas  a  rapid  and  hurried  manner  excites; 
that  flutter  of  fpirits  which  is  the  greatefl  enemy  to* 
all  right  execution  in  oratory. 

To  propriety  of  pronunciation  nothing  is  more  con- 
ducive than  giving  to  every  word  which  we  utter,., 
that  found  which  the  moil  polite  ufage  appropriates  to-, 
it,  in  oppofition  to- broad,  vulgar,  or  provincial  pronun- 
ciation. On  this- fubjeft,  however,  written  in  (tr u&ions, 
avail  nothing.  But  there  is  one  obfervation  which  it 
may  be  ufeful  to  make.  In  our  language  every  word 
of  more  fyllables  than  one^has  one  accented  fyllable.. 
The  genius  of  the  language  requires  the  voice  to  mark 
that  fyllable  by  a  iironger  percuflion,  and  to  pafs  more 
Sightly  over  the  reft.  The  fame  accent  fhouid  be  giv-. 
en  to  every  word  in  public  fpeaking  and  in  common  dif- 
courfe. Many  perfons  err  in  this  refpe£l.  When  they 
fpeak  in  public  and  with  folsmnity,  they  pronounce  dif- 
ferently from  what  they  do  at  other  times.  They  dwell 
upon  fyllables,  and  protra£l  them  ;  they  multiply  ac- 
cents on  the  fame,  word  from  a  falfe  idea  that  it  gives. 
gravity  and  force  to  their  difcourfe,  and  increafes  the 
pomp  of  public  declamation.  But  this  is  one  of  the 
greatefl:  faults  which  can  be  committed  in  pronuncia- 
tion ;  it  conftitutes  what  is  termed  a  theatrical  or, 
mouthing  manner,  and  gives  -n  artificial,  affe&ed  ak 


PRONUNCIATION    OR  DELIVERY*  3  £3 

to  fpeech,  which  detracts  greatly  from  its  agreeable- 
nefs  and  its  impreffion. 

We  (hall  now  treat  of  thofe  higher  parts  of  delivery,, 
by  ftudying  which  a  fpeaker  endeavours  not  merely  ta 
render  himfelf  intelligible,  but  to  give  grace  and  force. 
to  what  he  utters.  Thefe  may  be  comprehended  under 
four  heads,  emphafis,  paufes,  tones,  and  geftures. 

By  emphafis  is  meant  a  fuller  and  ftronger  found  of 
voice,  by  which  we  diftinguifh  the  accented  fyllable  of 
fome  word,  on  which  we  intend  to  lay  particular 
ftrefs,  and  to  ihow  how  it  affects  the  reft  of  the  fen- 
tence.  To  acquire  the  proper  management  of  empha- 
fis, the  only  rule  is,  ftudy  to  acquire  a  juft  conception 
of  the  force  and  fpirit  of  thofe  fentiments  which  you. 
are  to  deliver.  In  all  prepared  difcouries  it  would, 
be  extremely  ufeful  if  they  were  read  over  or  re- 
hearfed  in  private,  with  a  view  of  afcertaining  the 
proper  emphafis,  before  they  were  pronounced  in  pub- 
lic 5  marking  at  the  fame  time  the  emphatical  words 
in  every  fentencc,  or  at  lead  in  the  mod  important: 
parts  of  the  difcourfe,  and  fixing  them  well  in  memory.. 
A  caution,  however,  mud  be  given  againft  multiplying 
emphatical  words  too  much-  They  become  linking,, 
only  when  ufed  with  prudent  referve.  If  they  recur 
too  frequently  ;  if  a  fpeaker  attempt  to  render  every 
thing  which  he  fays  of  high  importance,  by  a  multi- 
tude of  (Irong  emphafes,  they  will  foon  fail  to  excite 
the  attention  of  his  hearers. 

Next  to  emphafis,  paufes  demand  attention.  They 
are  of  two  kinds  ;  firft,  emphatical  paufes  ;  and  fec- 
ondly,  fuch  as  mark  the  diitin&ions  of  fenfe.  A  a 
emphatical  paufe  is  made  after  fomething  has  been 
Caid  of  peculiar  moment,  on  which  we  wilb  to   fix 


XC?4  PRONUNCIATION   OR  DELIVERT. 

the  hearer's  attention.  Sometimes  a  matter  of  im- 
portance is  preceded  by  a  paufeof  this  nature.  Such 
paufes  have  the  fame  effe£t  with  ftrong  emphafes, 
and  are  fubje£l  to  the  fame  rules ;  efpecially  to  the 
caution  juft  now  given,  of  not  repeating  them  too 
frequently.  For,  as  they  excite  uncommon  attention, 
and  confequently  raife  expectation,  if  this  be  not  fully 
anfwered,  they  occafion  difappointment  and  difguft. 

But  the  moft  frequent  and  the  principal  ufe  of  paufes 
is,  to  mark  the  divifions  of  the  fenfe,  and  at  the  fame 
time  to  permit  the  fpeaker  to  draw  his  breath ;  and 
the  proper  management  of  fuch  paufes  is  one  of  the 
moft  nice  and  difficult  articles  in  delivery.  A  proper 
command  of  the  breath  is  peculiarly  requifite.  To 
obtain  this,  every  fpeaker  fhould  be  very  careful  to 
provide  a  full  fupply  of  breath  for  what  he  is  to  utter. 
It  is  a  great  miftake  to  fuppofe  that  the  breath  mufl 
be  drawn  only  at  the  end  of  a  period,  when  the  voice 
is  allowed  to  fall.  It  may  eafily  be  gathered  at  the 
intervals  of  a  period,  when  the  voice  fuffers  only  a 
momentary  fufpenfion.  By  this  management  a  fuffi- 
cient  fupply  may  be  obtained  for  carrying  on  the 
longeft  period  without  improper  interruptions. 

Paufes  in  public  difcourfe  mufl:  be  formed  upon  the 
manner  in  which  we  exprefs  ourfelves  in  fenfible  con- 
verfation,  and  not  upon  the  ftiff,  artificial  manner, 
which  we  acquire  from  perufing  books  according  ta 
common  pun&uation.  Punctuation  in  general  is  very 
arbitrary  ;  often  capricious  and  falfe  ;  dictating  a  uni- 
formity of  tone  in  the  paufes,  which  is  extremely  un- 
pleafing.  For  it  mull  be  obferved,  that,  to  render 
paufes  graceful  and  expreffive,  they  mufl  not  only  be 
made  in  the  right  places,  but  alfo  be  accompanied  by 


PRONUNCIATION   OR   DELIVERY.  l6j 

proper  tones  of  voice  ;  by  which  the  nature  of  thefe 
paufes  is  intimated  much  more  than  by  their  length, 
which  can  never  be  exactly  meafured.  Sometimes  on- 
ly a  flight  and  fimple  fufpenfion  of  the  voice  is  proper ; 
fometimes  a  degree  of  cadence  is  requifite  ;  and  fome- 
times  that  peculiar  tone  and  cadence  which  mark  the 
conclufion  of  a  period.  In  all  thefe  cafes,  a  fpeaker  is 
to  regulate  himfelf  by  the  manner  in  which  he  fpeaks, 
when  engaged  in  earned  difcourfe  with  others. 

In  reading  or  reciting  verfe,  there  is  a  peculiar  diffi- 
culty in  making  the  paufes  with  propriety.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  paufes,  which  belong  to  the  mufic  of 
verfe  j  one  at  the  end  of  a  line,  and  the  other  in  the 
middle  of  it.  Rhyme  always  renders  the  former  fenfi- 
ble,  and  compels  obfervance  of  it  in  pronunciation. 
In  blank  verfe  it  is  lefs  perceivable  ;  and  when  there 
is  no  fufpenfion  of  the  fenfe,  it  has  been  doubted, 
whether  in  reading  fuch  verfe  any  regard  fhould  be 
paid  to  the  clofe  of  a  line.  On  the  ftage,  indeed, 
where  the  appearance  of  fpeaking  in  verfe  fhould  be 
avoided,  the  clofe  of  fuch  lines  as  make  no  paufe  in 
the  fenfe  fhould  not  be  rendered  perceptible  to  the  ear. 
On  other  occafions  we  ought,  for  the  fake  of  melody, 
to  read  blank  verfe  in  fuch  manner  as  to  make  each 
line  fenfible  to  the  ear.  In  attempting  this,  however, 
every  appearance  of  fing-fong  and  tone  muft  be  cau- 
tioufly  avoided.  The  clofe  of  a  line,  where  there  is 
no  paufe  in  the  meaning,  fhould  be  marked  only  by 
fo  flight  a  fufpenfion  of  found,  as  may  diftinguifh  the 
paflage  from  one  line  to  another,  without  injuring  the 
fenfe. 

The  paufe  in  the  middle  of  the  line  falls  after  the 
4th,  5th,  6th>  or   7th  fyllable,  and  no  other.     Wheu 


1 66  PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 

this  paufe  coincides  with  the  flighted  divifion  in  the 
fenfe,  the  line  may  be  read  with  eafe  j  as  in  the  two 
firft  verfes  of  Pope's  Mefliah  : 

Ye  nymphs  of  Soly  ma,  begin  the  fong, 

To  heavenly  themes  fublimer  ftrains  belong. 

But  if  words,  that  have  fo  intimate  a  connexion* 
as  not  to  admit  even  a  momentary  reparation,  be  divid- 
ed from  each  other  by  this  csefural  paufe  ;  we  then 
perceive  a  conflict  between  the  fenfe  and  found, 
which  renders  it  difficult  to  read  fuch  lines  gracefully. 
In  fuch  cafes  it  is  beft  to  facrifice  found  to  fenfe. 
For  inftance,  in  the  following  lines  of  Milton  : 


»  What  in  me  is  dark, 

Illumine)  what  is  low,  raife  and  fupport. 

The  fenfe  clearly  dictates  the  paufe  after  "  illumine," 
which  ought  to  be  obferved  ;  though,  if  melody  only 
were  to  be  regarded,  "  illumine"  fhould  be  connected 
with  what  follows,  and  no  paufe  made  before  the  4th 
or  6th  fyllable.  So  alfo  in  the  following  line  of  Pope's 
Epiftle  to  Arbuthnot  : 

I  fit  j  with  fad  civility  I  read. 

The  ear  points  out  the  paufe  as  falling  after  "  fad," 
the  fourth  fyllable.  But  to  feparate  "  fad"  and 
u  civility"  would  be  very  bad  reading.  The  fenfe  al- 
lows no  other  paufe  than  after  the  fecond  fyllable, 
lf  fit  j"  which  therefore  is  the  only  one  to  be  obferved. 

We  proceed  to  treat  of  tones  in  pronunciation 
which  are  different  both  from  emphafes  and  paufes  ; 
confiding  in  the  modulation  of  the  voice,  the  notes  or 
variations  of  found  which  are  employed   in  public 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY.  1 67 

fpeaking.  The  moft  material  inftru£tion  which  can 
be  given  on  this  fubjedt,  is  to  form  the  tones  of  pub- 
lic fpeaking  upon  the  tones  of  animated  conveffation. 
Every  one  who  is  engaged  in  fpeaking  on  a  fubjedt 
which  interefts  him  nearly,  has  an  eloquent  or  per- 
fuafive  tone  and  manner.  But,  when  a  fpeaker  de- 
parts from  his  natural  tone  of  expreffion,  he  becomes 
frigid  and  unperfuafive.  Nothing  is  more  abfurd 
than  to  fuppofe  that  as  foon  as  a  fpeaker  afcends  a 
pulpit,  or  rifes  in  a  public  aflembly,  he  is  inftantly  to 
lay  afide  the  voice  with  which  he  expreffes  himfelf  in 
private,  andtoaflume  anew,  ftudiedtone,  and  a  cadence 
altogether  different  from  his  natural  manner.  This 
has  vitiated  all  delivery,  and  has  given  rife  to  cant  and 
tedious  monotony.  Let  every  public  fpeaker  guard 
againft  this  error.  Whether  he  fpeak  in  private,  or 
in  a  great  affembly,  let  him  remember  that  he  flill 
fpeaks.  Let  him  take  nature  for  his  guide,  and  (he 
will  teach  him  to  exprefs  his  fentiments  and  feelings 
in  fuch  manner,  as  to  make  tfye  moft  forcible  and 
pleafing  impreflion  upon  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 

It  now  remains  to  treat  of  gefture,  or  what  is  call- 
ed a£Hon  in  public  difcourfe.  The  beft  rule  is,  at- 
tend to  the  looks  and  gefture  in  which  carneftnefs, 
indignation,  companion,  or  any  other  emotion,  discov- 
ers itfelf  to  moft  advantage  in  the  common  intercourfc 
of  men ;  and  let  thefe  be  your  model.  A  public 
fpeaker  muft  however  adopt  that  manner  which  is 
moft  natural  to  himfelf.  His  motions  and  geftures 
ought  all  to  exhibit  that  kind  of  expreffion  which  na- 
ture has  di£lated  to  him ;  and,  unlefs  this  be  the 
cafe,  no  ftudy  can  prevent  their  appearing  ftiff  and 
forced.    But,  though  nature  is  the  bafis  on  which 


I6B  PRONUNCIATION   OR   DELIVERY. 

every  grace  of  gefture  mud  be  founded,  yet  there  is 
room  for  fo me  improvements  of  art.  The  ftudy  of 
action  confifts  chiefly  in  guarding  againft  awkward 
and  difagreeable  motions,  and  in  learning  to  perform 
fuch  as  are  natural  to  the  fpeaker,  in  the  mod  grace* 
ful  manner.  Numerous  are  the  rules  which  writers 
have  laid  down  for  the  attainment  of  a  proper  gefticu- 
lation.  But  written  inftruclions  on  this  fubjecl:  can  be 
of  little  fervice.  To  become  ufeful,  they  muft  be  ex- 
emplified. A  few  of  the  fimpleft  precepts  however 
may  be  obferved  with  advantage.  Every  fpeaker 
fhould  ftudy  to  preferve  as  much  dignity  as  poflible 
iri  the  attitude  of  his  body.  He  fhould  generally  pre- 
fer an  erecl  pofture ;  his  pofition  fhould  be  firm, 
that  he  may  have  the  fullefl  and  freed  command  of 
all  his  motions.  If  any  inclination  be  ufed,  it  fhould 
be  toward  the  hearers,  which  is  a  natural  expreflion 
of  earneftnefs.  The  countenance  fhould  correfpond 
with  the  nature  of  the  difcourfe  ;  and,  when  no  par- 
ticular emotion  is  exprefled,  a  ferious  and  manly  look 
is  always  to  be  preferred.  The  eyes  fhould  never  be  fix- 
ed entirely  on  any  one  object,  but  move  eafily  round  the 
audience.  In  motion,  made  with  fhe  hands}*confm1j& 
the  principal  part  of  gefture  in  fpeaking  It  is  natur- 
al for  the  right  hand  to  be  employed  more  frequently 
than  the  left.  Warm  emotions  require  the  exercife 
of  them  both  together.  But,  whether  a  fpeaker  genic- 
ulate with  one,  or  with  both  his  hands,  it  is  important 
that  all  his  motions  be  eafy  and  unreftrained.  Nar- 
row and  confined  movements  are  ufually  ungraceful  5 
and  consequently  motions  made  with  the  hands, 
fhould  proceed  from  the  fhoulder,  rather  than  from 
the  elbow.    Perpendicular  movements  are  to  be  avoid- 


MEANS   OF   IMPROVING   IN   ELOQUENCE.  ify 

•eel.  Oblique  motions  are  moft  pleafing  and  grace- 
ful. Sudden  and  rapid  motions  are  feldom  good. 
Earneftnefs  can  be  fully  expreffed  without  their  af- 
(iftance. 

We  cannot  conclude  this  fubje£r,  without  earneftly 
admonifhing  every  fpeaker  to  guard  againft  afFe&a- 
tion,  which  is  the  deftru£Hon  of  good  delivery.  Let 
his  manner,  whatever  it  be,  be  his  own ;  neither  imi- 
tated from  another,  nor  taken  from  fome  imaginary 
model,  which  is  unnatural  to  him.  Whatever  is  na- 
tive, though  attended  by  feveral  defeats,  is  likely  to 
pleafe,  becaufe  it  (hows  us  the  man  5  and  becaufe  it 
has  the  appearance  of  proceeding  from  the  heart.  To 
attain  a  delivery  extremely  correct  and  graceful,  is 
what  few  can  expecTt  5  fince  fo  many  natural  talents 
mud  concur  in  its  formation.  But  to  acquire  a 
forcible  and  perfuafive  manner,  is  within  the  power  of 
moft  perfons.  They  need  only  to  difmifs  bad  habits, 
follow  nature,  fend  fpeak  in  public  as  they  do  in 
private,  when  they  fpeak  in  earneft  and  from  the 
heart. 


A 


MEANS   OF   IMPROVING   IN   ELOQUENCE. 

JL  O  thofe  who  are  anxious  to  excel  in  any  of 
the  higher  kinds  of  oratory,  nothing  is  more  neceffary 
than  to  cultivate  habits  of  the  feveral  virtues,  and  to 
refine  and  improve  their  moral  feelings.  A  true  ora» 
tor  mud  poiTefs  generous  fentiments,  warm  feel- 
ings,   and  a  mind    turned  toward   admiration    of 

0. 


fjO        MEANS   OF   IMPROVING   IN   ELOQUENCE. 

thofe  great  and  high  objects  which  men  areby  nature 
formed  to  venerate.  Connected  with  the  manly  vir- 
tues, he  mould  poffefs  flrong  and  tender  fenfibility  to 
all  the  injuries,  diftreffes,  and  forrows  of  his  fellow- 
creatures. 

Next  to  moral  qualifications,  what  is  moll:  requifite 
for  an  orator,  is  a  fund  of  knowledge.  There  is  no 
art  by  which  eloquence  can  be  taught  in  any  fphere, 
without  a  fufficient  acquaintance  with  what  belongs  to 
that  fphere.  Attention  to  the  ornaments  of  ftyle  can 
only  affift  an  orator  in  fetting  off  to  advantage  the 
ftock  of  materials  which  he  poffeffes  \  but  the  mate- 
rials themfelves  mud  be  derived  from  other  fources 
than  from  rhetoric.  A  pleader  muft  make  himfelf 
completely  acquainted  with  the  law ;  he  muft  poiTefs 
all  that  learning  and  experience  which  can  be  ufeful 
for  fupporting  a  caufe,  or  convincing  a  judge.  A 
preacher  muft  apply  himfelf  clofely  to  the  ftudy  of 
divinity,  of  practical  religion,  of  morals,  and  of  hu- 
man nature  ;  that  he  may  be  rich  in  all  topics  of  in- 
ftruction  and  perfuafion.  He  who  wifhes  to  excel  in 
the  fupreme  council  of  the  nation,  or  in  any  public  af- 
fembly,  (houid  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
bufinefs  that  belongs  to  fuch  affembly  ;  and  mould  at- 
tend with  accuracy  to  all  the  facts  which  may  be  the 
fubject  of  queftion  or  deliberation. 

Befide  the  knowledge  peculiar  to  his-  profeflion,  a 
public  fpeaker  fhould  be  acquainted  with  the  general 
circle  of  polite  literature.  Poetry  he  will  find  ufeful 
for  embellifhing  his  ftyle,  for  fuggefting  lively  images* 
or  pleafmg  illuiions.  Hiftory  may  be  ftill  more  ad- 
vantageous ;  as  the  knowledge  of  facts,  of  eminent 
characters,  and  of  the  courfe  of  human  affairs,  finds 


MEANS  OF  IMPROVING  IN  ELOQUENCE.    1 7 1 

place  on  many  occafions.  Deficiency  of  knowledge 
even  in  fubje&s  not  immediately  connected  with  his 
profeflion,  will  expofe  a  public  fpeaker  to  many  difad- 
vantages,  and  give  his  rivals,  who  are  better  qualified, 
a  decided  fuperiority. 

To  every  one  who  wifhes  to  excel  in  eloquence* 
application  and  induftry  cannot  be  too  much  recom- 
mended. Without  this  it  is  impoffible  to  excel  in 
any  thing.  No  one  ever  became  a  diftinguiflied  plead- 
er, or  preacher,  or  fpeaker  in  any  aflembly,  without 
previous  labour  and  application.  Induftry  indeed  is 
not  only  neceflliry  to  every  valuable  acquifition,  but 
it  is  defigned  by  Providence  as  the  feafoning  of  every 
pleafure,  without  which  life  is  doomed  to  languifh. 
No  enemy  is  fo  deftru&ive  both  to  honourable  attain- 
ments, and  to  the  real  and  fpirited  enjoyment  of  life, 
as  that  relaxed  ftate  of  mind,  which  proceeds  from 
indolence  and  diffipation.  He  who  is  deflined  to 
excel  in  any  art,  will  be  diftinguiihed  by  enthufiafm 
for  that  art  5  which,  firing  his  mind  with  the  object 
in  view,  will  difpofe  him  to  relifh  every  necefiary  la- 
bour. This  was  the  charafteriftic  of  the  great  men 
of  antiquity  #,  and  this  rnufl  diftinguifti  moderns  who 
wifh  to  imitate  them.  This  honourable  enthufiafm 
fhould  be  cultivated  by  fludents  in  oratory.  If  it  be 
wanting  to  youth,  manhood  will  flag  exceedingly. 

Attention  to  the  beft  models  contributes  greatly  to 
improvement  in  the  arts  of  fpeaking  and  writing, 
Every  one  indeed  mould  endeavour  to  have  fomething 
that  is  his  own,  that  is  peculiar  to  himfelf,  and  will 
diftinguifti  his  ftyle.  Genius  is  certainly  deprefled,  or 
want  of  it  betrayed,  by  flavifh  imitation.  Yet  no 
genius  is  fo  original,  as  not  to  receive  improvement 


*72         MEANS   OF   IMPROVING    IN   ELOQUENCE* 

from  proper  examples  in  ftyle,  composition,,  and  de- 
livery. They  always  afford  fome  new  ideas,  and  ferve 
to  enlarge  and  correal  our  own.  They  quicken  the 
current  of  thought,  and  excite  emulation. 

In  imitating  the  Style  of  a  favourite  author,  a  mate- 
rial diftin&ion  fhould  be  obferved  between  written  and 
fpoken  language.  Thefe  are  in  reality  two  different 
modes  of  communicating  ideas.  In  books  we  expert 
correclnefs,  precifion,  all  redundancies  pruned,  all 
repetitions  avoided,  language  completely  poliShed. 
Speaking  allows  a  more  eafy,  copious  ftyle,  and  lefs 
confined  by  rule  •,  repetitions  may  often  be  requifite ; 
parenthefes  may  fometimes  be  ornamental  j  the  fame 
thought  mud  often  be  placed  in  different  points  of 
view;  fince  the  hearers  can  catch  it  only  from  the  mouth 
of  the  fpeaker,  and  have  not  the  opportunity,  as  in 
reading,  of  turning  back  again,  and  of  contemplating 
what  they  do  not  entirely  comprehend.  Hence  the 
ftyle  of  many  good  authors  would  appear  ftiffj  affe£i- 
ed,  and  even  obfcure,  if  transferred  into  a  popular  o- 
ration.  How  unnatural,  for  inftance,  would  Lord 
Shaftefbury's  fentences  found  in  the  mouth  of  a  pub- 
lic fpeaker  ?  Some  kinds  of  public  difcourfe  indeed, 
fuch  as  that  of  the  pulpit,  where  more  accurate  prep- 
aration and  more  fludied  ftyle  are  allowable,  wouki 
admit  fuch  a  manner  better  than  others,  which  are 
expected  to  approach  nearer  to  extemporaneous  fpeak- 
ing.  But  ftill  there  is  generally  fuch  a  difference  be- 
tween a  compofition,  intended  only  to  be  read,  and 
one  proper  to  be  fpoken,  as  Should  caution  us  againft 
a  clofe  and  improper  imitation. 

The  compofition  of  fome  authors  approaches  near- 
er to  the  ftyle  of  fpeaking  than  that  of  others,  and 


ME1N3  OF   IMPROVING  IN  ELOQUENCE.         1 73 

they  may  therefore  be  imitated  with  more  fafety.  In 
our  own  language,  Swift  and  Bolingbroke  are  of  this 
defeription.  The  former,  though  correal,  preferves 
the  eafy  and  natural  manner  of  an  unaffe&ed  fpeaker. 
The  ftyle  of  the  latter  is  more  fplendid  5  but  ftill  it  is 
the  ftyle  of  fpeaking,  or  rather  of  declamation. 

Frequent  exercife  both  in  cbmpofing  and  fpeaking  is 
a  neceflary  mean  of  improvement.     That  kind  of  com- 
pofition  is  mod  ufeful  which  is   connected  with  the 
profeflion,  or  fort  of  public  fpeaking,  to  which  per- 
ilous devote  themfelves.     This  they  mould  ever  keep 
in  view,  and  gradually  inure  themfelves  to  it.     At  the 
fame  time  they  mould  be  cautious  not  to  allow  them- 
felves to  compofe    negligently  on   any  occafion.     He 
who  wifhes  to  write  or  fpeak  correctly,  mould  in  the 
mod  trivial  kind  of  compofition,  in  writing  a  letter, 
or  even  in  common   converfation,   ftudy   to   exprefs 
himfelf  with  propriety.     By  this  we  do  not  mean  that 
he  is  never  to  write  or  fpeak,  but  in  elaborate  and  ar- 
tificial language.     This  would  introduce  ftiffnefs  and 
affectation,  infinitely   worfe  than  the  greateft  negli- 
gence.    But  we  muft  obferve,  that  there  is   in  every- 
thing a  proper  and  becoming  manner  j  and  on   the 
contrary,  there  is  alfo  an  awkward  performance  of  the 
fame  thing.     The  becoming  manner  is  often  the  mod 
light,  and  feemingly   rrioft  carelefs;  but  tafte  and  at- 
tention are  requifite  to  feize  the  juft  idea  of  it.     That 
idea,  when  acquired,  fhould  be  kept  in  view,  and  up- 
on it  mould  be  formed,  whatever  we  write  or  fpeak. 
Exercifes  in  fpeaking  have  always  been  recommend- 
ed to  ftudents ;  and,  when  under  proper   regulation* 
iHuft  be  of  great  ufe.    Thofe  public  and  promifcuous 


174         MEANS   OF   IMPROViNG   IN   ELOQJJENCE* 

focieties  in  which  numbers  are  brought5  together  wh# 
are  frequently  of  low  Rations  and  occupations  ;  who 
are  conne£ied  by  no  common  bond  of  union,  except 
a  ridiculous  rage  for  public  fpeaking,  and  have  no 
other  objeft  in  view  than  to  exhibit  their  fuppofed 
talents  ;  are  inftitutions  not  only  ufelefs,  but  inj urin- 
ous. They  are  calculated  to  become  feminaries  of 
licentioufnefs,  petulance,  and  faction.  Even  the  a!* 
iowable  meetings  into  which  ftudents  of  oratory  may 
form  themfelves,  need  direction  in  order  to  render 
them  ufeful.  If  their  fubje&s  of  difcourfe  be  improp* 
erly  chofen  ;  if  they  fupport  extravagant  or  indecent  top* 
ics  •,  if  they  indulge  themfelves  in  loofe  and  flimfy  dec- 
lamation ;  or  accuftom  themfelves  without  preparation 
to  fpeak  pertly  on  all  fubje£ts  •,  they  will  unavoidably 
acquire  a  very  faulty  and  vicious  tafte  in  fpeaking*. 
It  fhould  therefore  be  recommended  to  all  thofe  who 
are  members  of  fuch  focieties,  to  attend  to  the  choice  of 
their  fubjecis  \  to  take  care  that  they  be  ufeful  and 
manly,  either  conne&ed  with  the  courfe  of  their  ftud> 
ies,  or  related  to  morals  and  tafte,  to  a£iion  and  life* 
They  fhould  alfo  be  temperate  in  the  practice  cf 
fpeaking  a,  not  fpeak  too  often,  nor  on  fubjefls  cf 
which  they  are  ignorant  \  but  only  when  they  have 
proper  materials  for  a  difcourfe,  and  have  previoufly 
confidered  and  digefted  the  fubjeft.  In  fpeaking,  they 
fhould  be  cautious  always  to  keep  good  fenfe  and 
perfuafion  in  view,  rather  than  a  fhow  of  eloquence. 
By  thefe  means  they  will  gradually  form  themfelves 
to  a  manky,  correft,  and  perfuafive  manner  of  fpeak- 
ing. 

It  may  now  be  afked,  of  what  ufe  will  the  fludy  cf 
critical  and  rhetorical  writers  be  to  thofe  who  wilh  to 


MEANS  OF    IMPROVING   IN   ELOOJJENCE.  17/ 

excel  in  eloquence  ?  They  Certainly  ought  not  to  be 
neglefted  \  and  yet  perhaps  very  much  cannot  be  ex- 
peded  from  them.  It  is  however  from  the  original 
ancient  writers  that  the  greateft  advantage  may  be 
derived  ;  and  it  is  a  difgrace  to  any  one,  whofe  pro- 
feflion  calls  him  to  fpeak  in  public,  to  be  unacquaint- 
ed with  them.  In  all  the  ancient  rhetorical  writers 
there  is  indeed  one  defe£l ;  they  are  too  fyftematic- 
al.  They  aim  at  doing  too  much,  y  at  reducing 
rhetoric  to  a  perfeft  art,  which  may  even  fupply  in- 
vention with  materials  on  every  fubjed  ;  fo  that  one 
would  fuppofe  they  expe£ted  to  form  an  orator,  by 
rule,  as  they  would  form  a  carpenter.  But  in  reality 
all  that  can  be  done,  is  to  aflifl  and  enlighten  tafte, 
and  to  point  out  to  genius  the  courfe  it  ought  to 
hold. 

Ariftotle  was  the  flrft  who  took  rhetoric  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  fophifts,  and  founded  it  on  reafon 
and  folid  fenfe.  Some  of  the  profoundeft  obfervations,. 
which  have  been  made  on  the  pailions  and  manners 
of  men,  are  to  be  found  in  his  Treatife  on  Rhetoric  £ 
though  in  this,  as  in  all  his  writings,  hi&great  concifenefe 
often  renders  him  obfeure.  The  Greek  rhetoricians 
who  fucceeded  him,  moft  of  whom  are  now  loft,  im- 
proved on  his  foundation.  Two  of  them  ft ii!  remain,, 
Demetrius  Phalereus,  and  Dionyfius  of  Halicarnaffus. 
Both  wrote  on  the  conftru&ion  of  fentences,  and  de- 
ferve  to  be  confulted  ;  particularly  Dionyfius,  who  is  » 
very  accurate  and  judicious  critic. 

To  recommend  the  rhetorical  writings  of  Cicero  is 
fuperfluous.  Whatever  on  the  fubjedl  of  eloquence 
is  fuggefted  by  fo  great  an  orator,  mull  be  worthy  of 
attention.    His  moft  eatenfive  work  on  this  fubjeit  is 


.'J7«S-  COMPARISON   OF    THE 

that  De  Oratore.  None  of  his  writings  are  mere 
highly  finiflied  than  this  treatife.  The  dialogue  is 
polite  ;  the  chara&ers  are  well  fupported,  and  the 
management  of  the  whole  is  beautiful  and  pleafing. 
The  Orator  ad  M.  Brutum  is  alfo  a  valuable  treatife  ; 
and  indeed  through  all  Cicero's  rhetorical  works  are 
difplayed  thofe  fublime  ideas  of  eloquence  which  are 
calculated  to  form  a  juft  tafte,  and  to  infpire  that  en- 
thufiafm  for  the  art  which  is  highly  conducive  to  ex- 
cellence. 

But  of  all  ancient  writers  on  the  fubje£t  of  oratory^, 
the  mod  inftrudlive  and  mod  ufeful  is  Quintilian. 
His  inftitutions  abound  with  good  fenfe,  and  difcover 
a  tafte  in  the  higheft  degree  juft  and  accurate.  AU 
moil  all  the  principles  of  good  criticifm  are  found  in 
them.  He  has  well  digefted  the  ancient  ideas  concern- 
ing rhetoric,  and  has  delivered  his  inftru£tions  in  ele* 
gant  and  polifhed  language. 


COMPARATIVE  MERIT  OF  THE  ANCIENTS 
AND  MODERNS. 

jl\  VERY  curious  queftion  has  been  agitated 
with  regard  to  the  comparative  merit  of  the  ancients 
and  moderns.  In  France,  this  difpute  was  carried  on 
with  great  heat  between  Boileau  and  Madame  Dacier 
for  the  ancients,  and  Perrauit  and  La  Motte  for  the 
moderns.  Even  at  this  day,  men  of  letters  are  divided 
on  the  fubjeft.  A  few  refle&ions  upon  it  may  ba 
ufeful, 


ANCIENTS    AND    MODERNS.  1 77 

To  decry  the  ancient  claflics  is  a  vain  attempt. 
Their  reputation  is  eftablifhed  upon  too  folid  a  foun- 
dation to  be  fliaken.  Imperfections  may  be  traced  in 
their  writings  ;  but  to  difcredit  their  works  in  general 
can  belong  only  to  peevifhnefs  or  prejudice.  The 
approbation  of  the  public  through  fo  many  centuries 
eftablifhes  a  verdift  in  their  favour,  from  which  there 
is  no  appeal. 

In  matters  of  mere  reafoning,  the  world  may  he 
long  in  error  ;  andfyftems  of  philofophy  often  have  a 
currency  for  a  time,  and  then  die.  But  in  objects  of 
tafte  there  is  no  fuch  fallibility  \  as  they  depend  not 
on  knowledge  and  fcience,  but  upon  fentiment  and 
feeling.  Now  the  univerfal  feeling  of  mankind  mint 
be  right  \  Homer  and  Virgil  therefore  muft  continue 
to  ftand  upon  the  fame  ground  which  they  have  fo 
long  occupied. 

Let  us  guard  however  againft  blind  veneration  for 
the  ancients,  and  inftitute  a  fair  comparifon  between 
them  and  the  moderns.  If  the  ancients  had  the  pre- 
eminence in  genius,  yet  the  moderns  muft  have  fome 
advantage  in  all  arts  which  are  improved  by  the  nat- 
ural progrefs  of  knowledge. 

Hence  in  natural  philofophy,  aftronomy,  chemiftry<> 
and  other  fciences,  which  reft  upon  obfervation  of  fa&s5 
the  moderns  have  a  decided  fuperiority  over  the  an- 
cients. Perhaps  too  in  precife  reafoning,  philosophers 
of  modern  ages  are  fuperior  to  thofe  of  ancient  times ; 
as  a  more  extenfive  literary  intercourfe  has  contributed 
to  fharpen  the  faculties  of  men.  The  moderns  have 
alfo  the  fuperiority  in  hiftory  and  in  political  knowl- 
edge ;  owing  to  the  extenfion  of  commerce,  the  diC- 
covery  of  different  countries,  the  fuperior  facility  o£ 


S78  COMPARISON   OF   THE,  &C» 

intercourfe,  and  the  multiplicity  of  events  and  revolt 
tions  which  have  taken  place  in  the  world.  In  po- 
etry likewife  fome  advantages  have  been  gained  in 
point  of  regularity  and  accuracy.  In  dramatic  per- 
formances, improvements  have  certainly  been  made 
upon  the  ancient  models.  The  variety  of  characters 
is  greater  ;  greater  fkill  has  been  difplayed  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  plot  5  and  a  happier  attention  to  probabil- 
ity and  decorum.  Among  the  ancients  we  find  high- 
er conceptions,  greater  fimplicity,  and  more  original- 
fancy.  Among  the  moderns  there  is  more  of  art  and 
corre£tnefs,  but  lefs  genius.  But,  though  this  remark 
may  in  general  be  juft,  there  are  fome  exceptions 
from  it;  Milton  and  Shakefpeare  are  inferior  to  no 
poets  in  any  age. 

Among  the  ancients  were  many  circumftances  fa- 
vourable to  the  exertions  of  genius.  They  travelled 
much  in  fearch  of  learning,  and  converfed  with  priefts, 
poets,  and  philofophers.  They  returned  home  full 
of  difcoveries,  and  fired  by  uncommon  objects.  Their 
enthufiafm  was  greater  \  and,  few  being  itimulate^ to 
excel  as  authors,  their  fame  was  more  intenfe  and 
flattering.  In  modern  times  good  writing  is  lefs  priz- 
ed. We  write  with  lefs  effort.  Printing  has  fo  mul- 
tiplied books,  that  affiftance  is  eafii)  procured.  Hence 
mediocrity  of  genius  prevails.  fe  beyond  this* 

and  to  foar  above  the  crowd,  :  0  few. 

In  epic  poetry,  Homer  and  ill  unrivalled  j 

and  orators,  equal  to   Der  icero,   we 

have  none.     In  hiftory,  we  have  1  0  narration 

fo  elegant,  fo  pifi  urefque,  fo  animate  in terefting, 

as  thole  of  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Xenophon,  Livy* 
Tacitus,  and  Salluft.    Our  dramas,  with  all  their  im« 


HISTORICAL   WRITING.  1 79 

yrovemcnts,  are  inferior  in  poetry  and  fentiment  to 
thofe  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides.  We  have  no  comic 
dialogue  that  equals  the  correct,  graceful,  and  elegant 
Simplicity  of  Terence.  The  elegies  of  Tibullus,  the 
paftorals  of  Theocritus,  and  the  lyric  poetry  of  Horace, 
are  ftill  unrivalled.  By  thofe,  therefore,  who  wifh  to 
form  their  tafte,  and  nourifh  their  genius,  the  utmoft 
attention  muft  be  paid  to  the  ancient  daffies,  both 
Greek  and  Roman. 

After  thefe  reflections  on  the  ancients  and  moderns, 
we  proceed  to  a  critical  examination  of  the  moft  dif- 
tinguifhed  kinds  of  compofition,  and  of  the  characters 
of  thofe  writers,  whether  ancient  or  modern,  who 
have  excelled  in  them.  Of  orations  and  public  dif- 
courfes  much  has  already  been  faid.  The  remaining 
profe  compofitions  may  be  divided  into  hiftorical  writ- 
ing, philofophical  writing,  epiftolary  writing,  and  fie-* 
titious  hiftory. 


« 


*•"  JEnSTORICAl/WRITING. 

.HISTORY  is  a  record  of  truth  for  the  inftruc- 
tion  of  mankind.  Hence  the  great  requifites  in  a  hif- 
torian  are  impartiality,  fidelity,  and  accuracy. 

in  the  conduct  of  hiftorical  detail,  the  firft  object  of 
a  hiftorian  mould  be,  to  give  his  work  all  poflible 
unity.  Hiftory  (hould  not  confift  of  unconnected 
parts.  Its  portions  (hould  be  united  by  fome  connect- 
ing principle,  which  will  produce  in  the  mind  an  im- 
preffion  of  fomething  that  is  one,  whole,  and  entire. 


160  HISTORICAL   WRITING. 

"Polybius,  though  not  an  elegant  writer,  is  remarkable 
for  this  quality. 

A  hiftorian  fhould  trace  aftions  and  events  to  their 
fources.  He  fhould  therefore  be  well  acquainted  with 
human  nature  and  politics.  His  (kill  in  the  former 
will  enable  him  to  defcribe  the  charadters  of  individu- 
als ;  and  his  knowledge  of  the  latter  to  account  for 
the  revolutions  of  government,  and  the  operation  of 
political  caufes  on  public  affairs.  With  regard  to  po- 
litical knowledge,  the  ancients  wanted  fome  advantages 
which  are  enjoyed  by  the  moderns.  In  ancient  times 
there  was  lefs  communication  among  neighbouring 
ftates*,  no  intercourfe  by  eftablifhed  polls,  nor  by  am- 
baffadors  at  diftant  courts.  Larger  experience  too  of 
the  different  modes  of  government  has  improved  the 
modern  hiftorian  beyond  the  hiftorian  of  antiquity. 

It  is  however  in  the  form  of  narrative,  and  not  by 
differtation,  that  the  hiftorian  is  to  impart  his  political 
knowledge.  Formal  difcuffions  expofe  him  to  fufpi- 
cion  of  being  willing  to  accommodate  his  fa£b  to  his 
theory.  They  have  alfo  an  air  of  pedantry,  and  evi- 
dently refult  from  want  of  art.  For  refleftions* 
whether  moral,  political,  or  philofophical,  may  be  fnfin- 
uated  in  the  body  of  a  narrative. 

Clearnefs,  order,  and  connexion  are  primary  virtues 
in  hiftorical  narration.  Thefe  are  attained  when  the 
hiftorian  is  complete  mafter  of  his  fubjeA ;  can  fee  the 
whole  at  one  view ;  and  comprehend  the  dependence 
of  all  its  parts.  Hiftory  being  a  dignified  fpecies  of 
compofition,  it  fhould  alfo  be  confpicuous  for  gravity. 
There  fhould  be  nothing  mean  nor  vulgar  in  the 
ftyle ;  no  quaintnefs,  no  fmartnefs,  no  affe&ation,  no 
wit,     A  hiftory  fhould  Ukewife  be  interefting  \  and 


HISTORICAL    WRITING.  l8l 

this  is  the  quality  which  chiefly  diftinguifhes  a  writer 
of  genius  and  eloquence. 

To  be  intereiling,  a  hiftorian  mufl  preferve  a  medi- 
um between  rapid  recital  and  prolix  detail.  He  fhould 
know  when  to  be  concife,  and  when  to  enlarge.  He 
fhould  make  a  proper  fele&ion  of  circumftances. 
Thefe  give  life,  body  and  colouring  to  his  narration* 
They  conflitute  what  is  termed  hiftorical  painting. 

In  all  thefe  virtues  of  narration,  particularly  in  pic- 
turefque  defcription,  the  ancients  eminently  excel. 
Hence  the  pleafurc  of  reading  Thucydides,  Livy,  Sal- 
luft,  and  Tacitus.  In  hiftorical  painting  there  are 
great  varieties.  Livy  and  Tacitus  paint  in  very  dif- 
ferent ways.  The  descriptions  of  Livy  are  full,  plain, 
and  natural  ;  thofe  of  Tacitus  are  fhort  and  bold. 

One  embellifhment,  which  the  moderns  have  laid  a- 
fide,  was  employed  by  the  ancients.  They  put  ora- 
tions into  the  mouths  of  celebrated  perfonages.  By 
thefe,  they  diverfified  their  hiftory,  and  conveyed 
both  moral  and  political  inftru&ion.  Thucydides 
was  the  firft  who  adopted  this  method  ;  and  the 
orations  with  which  his  hiftory  abounds,  are  valua- 
ble remains  of  antiquity.  It  is  doubtful  however  wheth- 
er this  embellifhment  fhould  be  allowed  to  the  hiftori- 
an •,  for  they  form  a  mixture,  unnatural  to  hiftory,  of 
truth  and  fi&ion.  The  moderns  are  more  chafte  when 
on  great  occafions  the  hiftorian  delivers  in  his  own 
perfon  the  fentiments  andreafonings  of  oppofite  parties. 

Another  fplendid  embellifhment  of  hiftory  is  the 
delineation  of  characters.  Thefe  are  confidered  as 
exhibitions  of  fine  writing  ;  and  hence  the  difficulty 
of  excelling  in  this  province.  For  characters  may  be 
too  finning  and  laboured.  The  accomplished  hiftori- 
R 


1 82  HISTORICAL   WRITING. 

an  avoids  here  to  dazzle  too  much.  He  is  felicitous 
to  give  the  refemblance  in  a  ftyle  equally  removed 
from  meannefs  and  affectation.  He  ftudies  the  gran- 
deur of  fimplicity. 

Sound  morality  fhould  always  reign  in  hiftory.  A 
hiftorian  fhould  ever  fhow  himfelf  on  the  fide  of  virtue. 
It  is  not,  however,  his  province  to  deliver  moral  in- 
ftru£Hons  in  a  formal  manner.  He  fhould  excite  in- 
dignation againft  the  defigning  and  the  vicious  \  and 
by  appeals  to  the  paffions,  he  will  not  only  improve  his 
reader,  but  take  away  from  the  natural  coolnefs  of  hif- 
torical  narration. 

In  modern  times  hiftorical  genius  has  fhone  moft  in 
Italy.  Acutenefs,  political  fagacity,  and  wifdom  are 
all  confpicuous  in  Machiavel,  Guicciardin,  Davila, 
Bentivoglio,  and  Father  Paul.  In  Great  Britain  hifto- 
ry has  been  fafhionable  only  a  few  years.  For,  though 
Clarendon  and  Burnet  are  confiderable  hiftorians,  they 
are  inferior  to  Hume,  Robertfon,  and  Gibbon. 

The  inferior  kinds  of  hiftorical  compofition  are  an- 
nals, memoirs,  and  lives.  Annals  are  a  collection  of 
fa£ts  in  chronological  order ;  and  the  properties  of  an 
annalift  are  fidelity  and  diftinclnefs.  Memoirs  are  a 
fpecies  of  compofition,  in  which  an  author  pretends  not 
to  give  a  complete  detail  of  fails,  but  only  to  record 
what  he  himfelf  knew,  or  was  concerned  in,  or  what 
iiluftrates  the  conduct  of  fome  perfon,  or  fome  tranf- 
adlion  which  he  choofes  for  his  fubje£t.  It  is  not 
therefore  expected  of  fuch  a  writer,  that  he  pofTefs  the 
fame  profound  refearch,  and  thofe  fuperior  talents 
which  are  requifite  in  a  hiftorian.  It  is  chiefly  re- 
quired of  him,  that  he  be  fprightly  and  interefting. 
The  French  during  two  centuries  have  poured  forth  3 


Historical  writing?.  183 

flood  of  memoirs  ;  the  mod  of  which  are  little  more 
than  agreeable  trifles.  We  mud,  however,  except 
from  this  cenfure  the  memoirs  of  the  Cardinal  de  Retz, 
and  thofe  of  the  Duke  of  Sully.  The  former  join  to 
a  lively  narrative  great  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
The  latter  deferve  very  particular  praife.  They  ap- 
proach to  the  ufefulnefs  and  dignity  of  legitimate  hif- 
tory.  They  are  full  of  virtue  and  good  fenfe  ;  and  are 
well  calculated  to  form  both  the  heads  and  hearts  of 
thofe  who  are  defigned  for  public  bufinefs  and  high 
ftations  in  the  world. 

Biography  is  a  very  ufeful  kind  of  compoGtion ; 
kfs  (lately  than  hiftory  ;  but  perhaps  not  lefs  inftruc- 
tive.  It  affords  full  opportunity  of  difplaying  the  char- 
acters of  eminent  men,  and  of  entering  into  a  thorough 
acquaintance  with  them.  In  this  kind  of  writing, 
Plutarch  excels  ;  but  his  matter  is  better  than  his 
manner  \  he  has  no  peculiar  beauty  nor  elegance. 
His  judgment  and  accuracy  alfo  are  fometimes  taxed. 
But  he  is  a  very  humane  writer,  and  fond  of  difplaying 
great  men  in  the  gentle  lights  of  retirement. 

Before  we  conclude  this  fubjecl,  it  is  proper  to  ob- 
ferve,  that  of  late  years  a  great  improvement  has  been 
introduced  into  hiftorical  compofition.  More  particu- 
lar attention  than  formerly,  has  been  given  to  laws, 
cuftoms,  commerce,  religion,  literature,  and  to  every 
thing  that  {hows  the  fpirit  and  genius  of  nations.  It 
is  now  conceived  that  a  hiflorian  ought  to  illuftrate 
manners  as  well  as  fa£ts  and  events.  Whatever  dis- 
plays the  ftate  of  mankind  in  different  periods  ;  what- 
ever iliuftrates  ihe  progrefs  of  the  human  mind,  is 
more  ufeful  than  details  of  fieges  and  battles. 


184       PHILOSOPHICAL  WRITING  AND  DIALOGUE. 


PHILOSOPHICAL  WRITING  AND  DIA. 
LOGUE. 

VyF  phiiofophy,  the  profeffed  defign  is  inflrue* 
tion.  With  the  philofopher  therefore  dyle,  form  and; 
drefs  are  inferior  object  s.  But  they  mud  not  be  whol- 
ly negledted.  The  fame  truths  and  reafonings,  deliv- 
ered with  elegance,  will  ftrike  more,  than  in  a  dulii 
and  dry  manner. 

Beyond  mere  perfpicuity,  the  drifted  precifion  and 
accuracy  are  required  in  a  philofophical  writer  5  and 
thefe  qualities  may  be  pofTeffed  without  drynefs.  Phi- 
lofophical writing  admits  a  polifhed,  neat  and  elegant 
dyle.  It  admits  the  calm  figures  of  fpeech  ;  but  re- 
jects whatever  is  florid  and  tumid.  Plato  and  Cicero 
have  left  philofophical  treatifes,  compofed  with  much 
elegance  and  beauty.  Seneca  is  too  fond  of  an  affect- 
ed, brilliant,  fparkling  manner.  Locke's  Treatife  on 
Human  Underdanding  is  a  model  of  a  clear  and  dif- 
tincl  philofophical  dyle.  In  the  writings  of  Shaftef- 
bury,  on  the  other  hand,  phiiofophy  is  drefled  up  with 
too  much  ornament  and  finery. 

Among  the  ancients,  philofophical  writing  often  a f- 
fumed  the  form  of  dialogue.  Plato  is  eminent  for  the 
beauty  of  his  dialogues.  In  richnefs  of  imagination 
no  philofophic  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  is  equal  to 
him.  His  only  fault  is  the  excefiive  fertility  of  his 
imagination,  which  fometimes  obfcures  his  judgment) 
and  frequently  carries  him  into  allegory,  fiction,  en- 
thufiafm,  and  the  airy  regions  of  mydical  theology. 


EPISTOLARY    WRITING.  I  $5 

Cicero's  dialogues  are  not  fo  fpirited  and  chara&erif- 
tical  as  thofe  of  Plato.  They  are  however  agreeable, 
and  well  fupported  ;  and  fliow  us  conversation,  carri- 
ed on  among  ibme  principal  perfons  of  ancient  Rome 
with  freedom,  good  breeding,  and  dignity.  Of  the 
light  and  humorous  dialogue,  Lucian  is  a  model ;  and 
he  has  been  imitated  by  feveral  modern  writers.  Fon- 
tenelle  has  written  dialogues,  which  are  fprightly  and 
agreeable  ;  but  his  characters,  whoever  his  perfonages 
be,  all  became  Frenchmen.  The  divine  dialogues  of 
Dr.  Henry  More  amid  the  academic  ftiffnefs  of  the  age 
are  often  remarkable  for  character  and  vivacity.  Bift> 
op  Berkley's  dialogues  are  abflract,  yet  perfpicuoua. 


EPISTOLARY    WRITING. 

XN  epiftolary  writing  we  expe£t  eafe  and  famil- 
iarity •,  and  much  of  its  charm  depends  on  its  introduce 
ing  us  into  fome  acquaintance  with  the  writer.  Its 
fundamental  requifites  are  nature  and  fimplicity, 
fprightlinefs  and  wit.  The  ftyle  of  letters,  like  that 
of  converfation,  mould  flow  eafily.  It  ought  to  be 
neat  and  correct,  but  no  more.  Cicero's  epiftles  are 
the  moft  valuable  collection  of  letters,  extant  in  any 
lauguage.  They  are  compofed  with  purity  and  ele- 
gance, but  without  the  leaft  affectation.  Several  let- 
ters of  Lord  Bolingbroke  and  of  BiGiop  Atterbury  are 
mafterly.  In  thofe  of  Pope  there  is  generally  too  much 
ftudy  ;  and  his  letters  to  ladies  in  particular  are  full 
of  affe&ation.  Thofe  of  Swift  and  Arb.uthnot  are 
R* 


1 86  FICTITIOUS    HISTORY. 

written  with  eafe  and  fimplicity.  Of  a  familiar  cor- 
refpondence,  the  molt  accompliflied  model  are  the  let- 
ters of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  They  are  eafy,  varied, 
lively  and  beautiful.  The  letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wort- 
ley  Montague,  are  perhaps  more  agreeable  to  the  epis- 
tolary ftyle,  than  any  in  the  Englifh  language. 


FICTITIOUS    HISTORY. 

X  HIS  fpecies  of  compofition  includes  a  very 
numerous,  and  in  general  a  very  infignificant  clafs  of 
writings,  called  romances  and  novels.  Of  thefe  how- 
ever the  influence  is  known  to  be  great  both  on  the 
morals  and  tafte  of  a  nation.  Notwithstanding  the  bad 
ends  to  which  this  mode  of  writing  is  applied,  it  might 
be  employed  for  very  ufeful  purpofes.  Romances  and 
novels  defcribe  human  life  and  manners,  and  diicover 
the  errors  into  which  we  are  betrayed  by  the  paflions. 
Wife  men  in  all  ages  have  ufed  fables  and  fid  ions  as 
vehicles  of  knowledge  •,  and  it  is  an  obfervation  of 
Lord  Bacon,  that  the  common  affairs  of  the  world 
are  infuincient  to  fill  the  mind  of  man.  He  mud 
create  worlds  of  his  own,  and  wander  in  the  regions 
of  imagination. 

All  nations  whatfoever  have  difcovered  a  love  of  fic- 
tion, and  talents  for  invention.  The  Indians,  Perfians, 
and  Arabians,  abounded  in  fables  and  parables.  A- 
xnong  the  Greeks,  we  hear  of  the  Ionian  and  Milefian 
tales.  During  the  dark  ages,  fidlion  aflumed  an  un- 
ufual  form  from  the  prevalence  of  chivalry.  Ro- 
.  mances  arcfe,  and  carried  the  marvellous  to  its  fummit* 


FICTITIOUS    HISTORY.  iBJ 

Their  knights  were  patterns  not  only  of  the  moft  he- 
roic courage,  but  of  religion,  generofity,  courtefy,  and 
fidelity ;  and  the  heroines  were  no  lefs  diftinguifhed 
for  modefty,  delicacy,  and  dignity  of  manners  Of 
thefe  romances,  the  moft  perfect  model  is  the  Orlando 
Furiofo.  But,  as  magic  and  enchantment  came  to  be 
difbelieved  and  ridiculed,  the  chivalerian  romances 
were  difcontinued,  and  were  fuccceded  by  a  new  fpe- 
cie6  of  fictitious  writing. 

Of  the  fecond  ft  age  of  romance  writing,  the  Cleo- 
patra of  Madame  Scuderi  and  the  Arcadia  of  Sir  Philip 
Sydney  are  good  examples.  In  thefe,  however,  there 
was  ilill  too  large  a  proportion  of  the  marvellous  ; 
and  the  books  were  too  voluminous  and  tedious. 
Romance  writing  appeared  therefore  in  a  new  form  j 
and  dwindled  down  to  the  familiar  novel.  Interefting 
fituations  in  real  life  are  the  ground-work  of  novel 
writing.  Upon  this  plan,  the  French  have  produced 
fome  works  of  confiderable  merit.  Such  are  the  Gil 
Bias  of  Le  Sage  and  the  Marianne  of  Marivaux. 

In  this  mode  of  writing,  the  Englifh  are  inferior  to 
the  French ;  yet  in  this  kind  there  are  fome  perform- 
ances which  difcover  the  ftrength  of  the  Britifii  genius. 
No  fiction  was  ever  better  fupported  than  the  Ad- 
ventures of  Robinfon  Crufoe.  Fielding's  novels  are 
highly  diflinguifhed  for  humour  and  boldnefs  of  char- 
acter. Richardfon,  the  author  of  ClariiTa,  is  the  moft 
moral  of  all  our  novel  writers  ;  but  he  polTefTes  the 
unfortunate  talent  of  fpinning  out  pieces  of  amufement 
into  an  immeafurabJe  length.  The  trivial  performan- 
ces which  daily  appear  under  the  title  of  lives,  adven- 
tures, and  hiftories,  by  anonymous  authors,  are  moft 
infipid,  and,  it  muftbe  confefled,  often  tend  to  deprave 
the  morals;  and  to  encourage  diffipation  and  idlenefs. 


188  NATURE    OF  POETRY, 

NATURE  OF  POETRY.     ITS  ORIGIN   AND 
PROGRESS.    VERSIFICATION. 


Wi 


HAT,  it  may  be  aiked,  is  poetry  ?  and  how 
does  it  differ  from  profe  ?  Many  difputes  have  been 
maintained  among  critics  upon  thefe  queftions.  The 
effence  of  poetry  is  fuppofed  by  Ariftotle,  Plato,  and 
others,  to  confift  in  fiction.  But  this  is  too  limited  a 
defcription.  Many  think  the  chara&eriftic  of  poetry 
lies  in  imitation.  But  imitation  of  manners  and  char- 
afters  may  be  carried  on  in  profe  as  well  as  in 
poetry. 

Perhaps  the  beft  definition  is  this,  "  poetry  is  the 
u  language  of  paffion,  or  of  enlivened  imagination, 
"  formed  moft  commonly  into  regular  numbers."  A& 
the  primary  object:  of  a  poet  is  to  pleafe  and  to  move, 
it  is  to  the  imagination  and  the  paflions  that  he  ad- 
dreffes  himfelf.  It  is  by  pleafing  and  moving,  that  he 
aims  to  inftru£t  and  reform. 

Poetry  is  older  than  profe.  In  the  beginning  of 
fociety  there  were  occafions  upon  which  men  met  to- 
gether for  feafts  and  facrifices,  when  mufic,  dancing, 
and  fongs  were  the  chief  entertainment  The  meet- 
ings of  American  tribes  are  diftinguiflied  by  mufic  ancj 
fongs.  In  fongs  they  celebrate  their  religious  rites 
and  martial  achievements  ;  and  in  fuch  fongs  we  trace 
the  beginning  of  poetic  compofition. 

Man  is  by  nature  both  a  poet  and  mufician.  The 
fame  impulfe  which  produced  a  poetic  ftyle,  prompt- 
ed a  certain  melody  or  modulation  of  found,  fuited  to 
the  emotions  of  joy  or  grief,  love  or  anger.     Mufic  and 


ENGLISH    VERSIFICATION,  lS> 

poetry  are  united  in  fong,  and  mutually  aflift  and  ex- 
alt each  other.  The  firfl  poets  fung  their  own  verfes. 
Hence  the  origin  of  verification*  or  the  arrangement 
of  words  to  tune  or  melody. 

Poets  and  fongs  are  the  fhrft  objects  that  make  their 
appearance  in  all  nations*  Apollo,  Orpheus  and 
Amphion  were  the  firft  tamers  of  mankind  among 
the  Greeks.  The  Gothic  nations  had  their  fcalders, 
or  poets.  The  Celtic  tribes  had  their  bards.  Poems 
and  fongs  are  among  the  antiquities  of  all  countries  ; 
and,  as  the  occasions  of  their  being  compofed  ars 
nearly  the  fame,  fo  they  remarkably  refemble  each 
other  in  ftyle.  They  comprife  the  celebration  of  gods* 
and  heroes,  and  victories*  They  abound  in  fire  and 
enthufiafm  y  they  are  wild,  irregular,  and  glowing. 

During  the  infancy  of  poetry,  all  its  different  kinds 
were  mingled  in  the  fame  compofition  ;  but  in  the 
progrefs  of  fociety,  poems  afTumed  their  different  regr 
ular  forms.  Time  feparated  into  claffes  the  feveral 
kinds  of  poetic  compofition.  The  ode  and  the  elegy, 
the  epic  poem  and  the  drama,  are  all  reduced  to  rule,, 
and  exercife  the  acutenefs  of  criticifm. 


ENGLISH   VERSIFICATION. 

IN  ATIONS,  whofe  language  and  pronuncia- 
tion were  mufical,  refted  their  verification  chiefly  oa 
the  quantities  of  their  fyllables  ;  but  mere  quantity 
has  very  little  effec~l  in  Englifh  verfe.  For  the  differ- 
ence, made  between  long  and  fhort  fyllables  in  our 
manner  of  pronouncing  them,  is  very  inconfiderable. 


19a  '        ENGLISH   VERSIFICATION 

The  only  perceptible  difference  among  our  fyHables 
arifes  from  that  ftrong  percuffion  of  voice  Which  is 
termed  accent.  This  accent  however  does  not  always 
make  the  fyllable  longer,  but  only  gives  it  more  force 
of  found  ;  and  it  is  rather  upon  a  certain  order  and 
fucceflion  of  accented  and  unaccented  fyllables,  than? 
upon  their  quantity,  that  the  melody  of  our  verfe  de- 
pends. 

In  the  conftitution  of  our  verfe  there  is  another 
effential  circumftance.  This  is  the  caefural  paufe,. 
which  falls  near  the  middle  of  each  line.  This  paufe 
may  fall  after  the  fourth,  fifth,  fixth,  or  feventh  fylla- 
ble ;  and  by  this  mean  uncommon  variety  and  rich- 
nefs  are  added  to  Englifh  verfifkation. 

Our  Englifh  verfe  is  of  Iambic  ftru&ure,  compofed 
of  a  nearly  alternate  fucceflion  of  unaccented  and  ac- 
cented fyllables.  When  the  paufe  falls  earlieft,  that 
is,  after  the  fourth  fyllable,  the  brifkefl  melody  is 
thereby  formed.  Of  this,  the  following  lines  from 
Pope,  are  a  happy  illuftration  :: 

On  her  white  bread  |  a  fparkling  crofs  flie  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kifs  |  and  Infidels  adore  ; 
Her  lively  looks  |  a  fprightly  mind  difclofe, 
Quick,  as  her  eyes,  |    and  as  unhVd  as  thofe. 
Favours   to  none,  |  to  all  fhe  fmiles  extends  ;; 
Oft  flie  rejects*  |  but  never  once  offends,- 

When  the  paufe  falls  after  the  fifth  fyllable,  dividing 
the  line  into  two  equal  portions,  the  melody  is  fenfi- 
bly  altered.  The  verfe,  lofing  the  briflc  air  of  the 
former   paufe,  becomes  more  fmooth  and  flowing.* 

Eternal  funfhine  |  of  the  fpotlefs  mind, 

Each  prayer  accepted,  |  and  each  wifh  refign'd* 


ENGLISH   VERSIFICATION. 


19  X 


"When  the  paufe  follows  the  fixth  fy  11  able,  the  mel- 
ody becomes  grave.  The  movement  of  the  verfe  is 
more  folemn  and  meafured. 

The  wrath  of  Peleus'  fon,  |  the  direful  fpring 
Of  all  the  Grecian  woes,  |  O  goddefs,  ling  ! 

The  grave  cadence  becomes  {till  more  fenfible  when 
the  paufe  follows  the  feventh  fyllable.  This  kind  of 
verfe  however  feldom  occurs  \  and  its  effe£t  is  to  di- 
verfify  the  melody. 

And  in  the  fmooth,  defcriptive  |  murmur  dill, 
X,ong  lov'd,  ador'd  ideas,  |  all  adieu. 

Our  blank  verfe  is  a  noble,  bold  and  difencumbered 
mode  of  verification.  It  is  free  from  the  full  clofe, 
which  rhyme  forces  upon  the  ear  at  the  end  of  every 
couplet.  Hence  it  is  peculiarly  fuited  to  fubje£ts  of 
dignity  and  force.  It  is  more  favourable  than  rhyme 
to  the  fublime  and  highly  pathetic.  It  is  the  moil 
proper  for  an  epic  poem  and  for  tragedy.  Rhyme 
finds  its  proper  place  in  the  middle  regions  of  poetry  ; 
and  blank  verfe  in  the  higheft. 

The  prefent  form  of  our  Englifh  heroic  rhyme  in 
couplets  is  modern.  The  meafure  ufed  in  the  days  of 
Elizabeth,  James,  and  Charles  I.  was  the  flanza  of 
.eight  lines.  Waller  was  the  firft  who  introduced 
couplets  \  and  Dryden  eftabliftied  the  ufage.  Waller 
fmoothed  our  verfe,  and  Dryden  perfected  it.  The 
verfiiication  of  Pope  is  peculiar.  It  is  flowing,  fmooth, 
and  correft  in  the  highelt  degree.  He  has  totally 
thrown  afide  the  triplets  fo  common  in  Dryden.  In 
eafe  and  variety,  Dryden  excels  Pope.  He  frequently 
makes  his  couplets  run  into  one  another  with  fome- 
what  of  the  freedom  of  blank  verfe. 


*92  PASTORAL   POETKY. 


PASTORAL  POETRY. 

IT  was  not  before  men  had  begun  to  affemhle 
in  great  cities,  and  the  buftle  of  courts  and  large  foci- 
cties  was  known,  that  paftoral  poetry  a  {Turned  its  pref- 
ent  form.  From  the  tumult  of  a  city  life,  men  look* 
ed  back  with  complacency  to  the  innocence  of  rural 
retirement.  In  the  court  of  Ptolemy,  Theocritus 
wrote  the  fir  ft  paitorals  with  which  we  are  acquaint- 
ed ;  and  in  the  court  of  Auguflus,  Virgil  imitated  him. 

The  paftoral  is  a  very  agreeable  fpecies  of  poetry. 
It  lays  before  us  the  gay  and  pleafing  fcenes  of  nature. 
It  recals  obje£ts  which  are  commonly  the  delight  of 
our  childhood  and  youth.  It  exhibits  a  life  with  which 
we  afTociate  ideas  of  innocence,  peace  and  leifure.  It 
tranfports  us  into  Elyfian  regions.  It  prefents  many 
obje£ts  favourable  to  poetry  ;  rivers  and  mountains, 
meadows  and  hills,  rocks  and  trees,  flocks  and  fhep* 
herds  void  of  care. 

A  paftoral  poet  is  careful  to  exhibit  whatever  is 
mod  pleafing  in  the  paftoral  ftate.  He  paints  its  fim- 
plicity,  tranquillity,  innocence,  and  happinefs  ;  but 
conceals  its  rudenefs  and  mifery.  If  his  pictures  be 
not  thofe  of  real  life,  they  muft  refemble  it.  This  is 
a  general  idea  of  paftoral  poetry.  But,  to  underftand 
it  more  perfe£lly,  let  us  confider,  i.  The  fcenery : 
a.  The  chara&ers  \  and  laftly,  the  fubje&s  it  fhouid 
exhibit. 

The  fcene  muft  always  be  in  the  country ;  and  the 
poet  muft  hare  a  talent  for  description.    In  this  refpeel, 


PASTORAL    POETRY.  I93 

Virgil  is  excelled  by  Theocritus,  whofe  defcriptions 
are  richer  and  more  pi&urefque.  In  every  paftoral,  a 
rural  profpect  fhould  be  drawn  with  diftindtnefs.  It 
is  not  enough  to  have  unmeaning  groups  of  rofes  and 
violets,  of  birds,  breezes,  and  brooks  thrown  together. 
A  good  poet  gives  fuch  a  landfcape  as  a  painter 
might  copy.  His  objects  arc  particularized.  The 
ftream,  the  rock,  or  the  tree,  fo  ftands  forth  as  to 
make  a  figure  in  the  imagination,  and  give  a  pleaf- 
ing  conception,  of  the  place  where  we  are. 

In  his  allufions  to  natural  objects  as  well  as  in  pro- 
fefied  defcriptions  of  the  fcenery,  the  poet  muft  ftudy 
variety.  He  muft  diverfify  his  face  of  nature  by  pre- 
fenting  us  new  images.  He  mud  alfo'fuit  the  fcenery 
to  the  fubjedt  of  his  paftoral  \  and  exhibit  nature,  un- 
der fuch  forms  as  may  correfpond  with  the  emotions 
and  fentiments  he  defcribes.  Thus  Virgil,  when  he 
gives  the  lamentation  of  a  defpairin  g  lover,  commu- 
nicates a  gloom  to  the  fcene. 

Tantum  inter  denfas,  umbrofa  cacumina,  fagos, 
Aflidue  veniebat ;   ibi  haec  incondita  folns 
Montibus  ct  fylvis  ftudio  ja&abat  inani. 

With  regard  to  the  charafters  in  paftorals,  it  is  not 
fufficient  that  they  be  perfons  refiding  in  the  country. 
Courtiers  and  citizens  who  refort  thither  occafionally, 
are  not  the  characters  expe&ed  in  paftorals.  We 
expe£t  to  be  entertained  by  fhepherds,  or  perfons  whol- 
ly engaged  in  rural  occupations.  The  fhepherd  muft 
be?  plain  and  unafFe&ed  in  his  manner  of  thinking. 
An  amiable  fimplicity  muft  be  the  ground-work  of  his 
chara&er  $  though  there  is  no  neceflity  for  his  being 
S 


f 94  PASTORAL    POETRY. 

dull  and  infipkl.  He  may  have  good  fenfe,  and  even 
vivacity  •,  tender  and  delicate  feelings,  But  he  mud 
never  deal  in  general  reflections,  or  abdracT:  reafonings  ; 
nor  in  conceits  of  gallantry  •,  for  thefe  are  confe- 
quences  of  refinement.  When  Aminta  in  Taflb  is 
difentangling  his  midrefs's  hair  from  the  tree,  to  which 
a  favage  had  bound  it,  he  is  made  to  fay,  "  Cruel  tree, 
u  how  couldft  thou  injure  that  lovely  hair,  which  did 
"  thee  fo  much  honour  ?  Thy  rugged  trunk  was  not 
"  worthy  of  fo  lovely  knots.  What  advantage  have 
"  the  fervants  >of  love,  if  thofe  precious  chains  are 
11  common  to  them  and  to  trees  ?"  Strained  fenti- 
xnents,  like  thefe,  fuit  not  the  woods.  The  language  of 
rural  perfonages  is  that  of  plain  fenfe  and  natural  feel- 
ing ;  as  in  the  following  beautiful  lines  of  Virgil : 

Sepibus  in  noftris  parvam  te  rofcida  mala 
(Dux  ego  vefter  eram)  vidi  cum  matre  legentem  ; 
Alter  ab  undecimo  turn  me  jam  ceperat  annus, 
Jam  fragiles  poteram  a  terra  contengere  ramos. 
Ut  vidi,  ut  perii,  ut  me  malus  abftulit  error  J 

The  next  inquiry  is,  what  are  the  proper  fubje&s  of 
paftorals  ?  For  it  is  not  enough  that  the  poet  give  us 
ihepherds  difcourfing  together.  Every  good  poem  has 
a  fubjeft  that  in  fome  way  interefts  us.  In  this  lies 
the  difficulty  of  paftoral  writing.  The  active  fcenes  of 
country  life  are  too  barren  of  incidents.  The  condi- 
tion of  a'fhepherd  has  few  things  in  it  that  excite  cu- 
riofity  or  furprife.  Hence  of  all  poems  the  paftoral  is 
mod  meagre  in  fubjedt,  and  lead  diversified  in. drain. 
Yet  this  defect  h  not  to  be  afcribed  folely  to  barren- 
nefs  of  fubjecls.  It  is  in  a  great  meafure  the  fault  of 
the  poet.     For  human  nature  and  human  paffions  are 


PASTORAL    POETRY.  ip£ 

much  the  fame  in  every  fituation  and  rank  of  life. 
What  a  variety  of  objects  within  the  rural  fphere  do 
the  paffions  prefent  !  The  druggies  and  ambition  of 
fhepherds  >  their  adventures  ;  their  difquiet  and  felici- 
ty j  the  rivalfhip  of  lovers  \  unexpected  fuccefles  and 
difaflers ;  are  all  proper  fubje£ts  for  the  paftoral 
mufe. 

Theocriius  and  Virgil  are  the  two  great  fathers  of 
paftoral  writing.  For  fimplicity  of  fentiment,  harmo- 
ny of  numbers,  and  richnefs  of  fcenery,  the  former  is 
highly  diftinguifhed.  But  he  fometimes  defcends  to 
ideas  that  are  grofs  and  mean,  and  makes  his  fhep* 
herds  abufive  and  immodeft.  Virgil  on  the  contrary 
preferves  the  paftoral  simplicity  without  any  ofFenfive 
rufticity. 

Modern  writers  of  paftorals  have  in  general  imitat- 
ed the  ancient  poets.  Sannazarius,  however,  a  Latin 
p oet,  in  the  age  of  Leo  X.  attempted  a  bold  innova- 
tion by  compofing  pifcatory  eclogues,  and  changing  the 
fcene  from  the  woods  to  the  fea,  and  the  character 
from  fhepherds  to  fifliermen.  But  the  attempt  was  fo 
unhappy  that  he  has  no  followers.  The  toil  fo  me 
life  of  filhermen  has  nothing  agreeable  to  prefent  to 
the  imagination.  Fifties  and  marine  productions  have 
nothing  poetical  in  them.  Of  all  the  moderns,  Gef- 
ner,  a  poet  of  Switzerland,  has  been  the  moft  happy 
in  paftoral  compofition.  Many  new  ideas  are  intro- 
duced in  his  Idyls.  His  fcenery  is  ftriking,  and  his 
defcriptions  lively.  He  is  pathetic,  and  writes  to  the 
heart.  Neither  the  paftorals  of  Pope,  nor  of  Philips, 
do  much  honour  to  Englifli  poetry.  The  paftorals  of 
Pope  are  barren  5  their  chief  merit  is  the  fmoothnefe 
of  the  numbers.     Philips  attempted  to  be  more  fin> 


I96  PASTORAL    POETRY. 

pie  and  natural  than  Pope  ;  but  wanted  genius  to 
fupport  the  attempt.  His  topics,  like  thofe  of  Pope,, 
are  beaten  •,  and,  inftead  of  being  natural  or  fimple,  he 
is  fiat  and  infipid.  Shenftone's  paftoral  ballad  is  one 
of  the  mod  elegant  poems  of  the  kind  in  the  Englifli 
language. 

In  latter  times  paftoral  writing  has  been  extended 
into  regular  drama  ;  and  this  is  the  chief  improvement 
the  moderns  have/  made  in  it.  Two  pieces  of  this 
kind  are  highly  celebrated,  Gaarini's  Pallor  Fido,  and 
Tafib's  Aminta.  Both  poflcfs  great  beauties  ;  but  the 
latter  is  the  preferable  poem,  becaufe-lefs  intricate, 
and  lefs  afle£ted  ;  though  not  wholly  free  from  Italian 
refinement.  As  a  poem,  however,  it  has  great  merit* 
The  poetry  is  pleafing  and  gentle,  and  the  Italian  lan- 
guage confers  on  it  much  of  that  foftnefs  which  is 
fuited  to  the  paftoral. 

The  Gentle  Shepherd  of  Allan  Ramfay  is  a  paftor- 
al drama  which  will  bear  comparifon  with  any  com- 
pofition  of  the  kind  in  any  language.  To  this  admir- 
able poem  it  is  a  difaclvantage,  that  it  is' written  in 
the  old  ruftic  diale£t  of  Scotland,  which  muft  foon  be 
obfolete  $  and  it  is  a  farther  difadvantage,  that  it  is 
formed  fo  entirely  on  the  rural  manners  of  Scotland, 
that  none,  but  a  native  of  that  country,  can  thoroughly 
underftand  and  relifli  it.  It  is  full  of  natural  defcrip- 
tion,  and  excels  in  tendernefs  of  fentiment.  The 
chara£lers  are  well  drawn,  the  incidents  affecting,  the 
fcenery  and  manners  lively  and  juft. 


LYRIC    POETP.t.  197 


LYRIC    POETRY. 

JL  HE  ode  is  a  fpecies  of  poetry,  which  has 
much  dignity,  and  in  which  many  writers  in  every 
age  have  diftinguiflied  themfelves.  Ode  in  Greek  is 
the  fume  with  fong  or  hymn  ;  and  lyric  poetry  implies 
that  the  verfes  are  accompanied  with  a  lyre,  or  mufic- 
al  inftrument.  In  the  ode,  poetry  retains  its  firft  form, 
and  its  original  union  with  mufic.  Sentiments  com- 
monly conititute  its  fubject.  It  recites  not  actions. 
Its  fpirit  and  the  manner  of  its  execution  mark  its 
character.  It  admits  a  bolder  and  more  paffionate 
drain  than  is  allowed  in  Ample  recital.  Hence  the 
enthufiafm  that  belongs  to  it.  Hence  that  neglect  of 
regularity,  thofe  digreffions,  and  that/  diforder,  it  U 
fuppofed  to  admit. 

All  odes  may  be  clafTed  under  four  denominations. 
1.  Hymns  addreifed  to  God,  or  compofed  on  religious- 
fubjects.  2.  Heroic  odes,  which  concern  the  cele- 
bration of  heroes  and  great  actions.  3.  Moral  and- 
philofophical  odes,  which  refer  chiefly  to  virtue, 
friendfhip,  and  humanity.  4.  Feftive  and  amorous 
odes,  which  are  calculated  merely  for  amufement  and 
pleafure. 

Enthufiafm  being  confidered  as  the  characteriftic 
of  the  ode,  it  ha  soften- degenerated  into  licentioufnefs. 
This  fpecies  of  writing  has  above  all  others  been  in- 
fected by  want  of  order,  method,  and  connexion*. 
The  poet  is  out  of  fight  in  a  moment  He  is  fo  ab~ 
S  2, 


I9#  LYRIC    POETRY. 

rupt  and  eccentric,  fo  irregular  and  obfcure,  that  we 
cannot  follow  him.  It  is  not  "indeed  necefiary  that  the 
ftrufture  of  the  ode  be  fo  perfe&ly  regular  as  an  epic 
poem.  But  in  every  compofition  there  ought  to  be  a 
whole  ;  and  this  whole  ihould  confift  of  connected 
parts.  The  tranfition  from  thought  to  thought  may 
be  light  and  delicate,  but  the  connexion  of  ideas  mould 
be  preferved  ;  the  author  mould  think,  and  not  rave. 

Pindar,  the  father  of  lyric  poetry,  has  led  his  imi- 
tators into  enthufiaflic  wildnefs.  They  imitate  his, 
diforder  without  catching  his  fpirir.  In  Horace's  odes 
every  thing  is  correft,  harmonious,  and  happy.  His 
elevation  is  moderate,  not  rapturous.  Grace  and  ele- 
gance are  his  characterises.  He  fupports  a  moral 
fentiment  with  dignity,  touches  a  gay  one  with  felici- 
ty, and  has  the  art  of  trifling  moil  agreeably.  His. 
language  too  is  mofl  fortunate. 

Many  Latin  poets  of  later  ages  have  imitated  him. 
Cafimir,  a  Polifh  poet  of  the  1  a  it  century,  is  of  this 
number;  and  discovers  a  considerable  degree  of  orig- 
inal genius  and  poetic  Hre.  He  is,  however,  far  inferi- 
or to  the  Roman  in  graceful  expreffion.  Buchanan 
in  fome  of  his  lyric  compofitions  is  very  elegant  and; 
clafiical. 

In  our  own  language,  Dry  den's  ode  on  St.  Cecilia 
is  well  known.  Mr.  Gray  in  fome  of  his  odes  is  cel- 
ebrated for  tendernefs  and  fublimity  ;  and  in  Dodf- 
ley's  Mifcellanies  are  feveral  very  beautiful  lyric  po*. 
ems,  Profeffedly  Pindaric  odes  are  feldom  intelligible. 
Cowley  is  doubly  harfh  in  his  Pindaric  compofitions.. 
His  Anacreontic  odes  are  happier,  and  perhaps  the 
mod  agreeable  and  perfect  in  their  kind  of  all  his 
poems» 


*I£>ACTIC   POETRY.  Ij^r> 


DIDACTIC     POETRY. 


Oi 


"F  didaclic  poetry,  it  is  the  exprefs  intention 
to  convey  inftru£Hon  and  knowledge.  It  maybe  ex- 
ecuted in  difFerent  ways.  The  poet  may  treat  fome 
in  ft  motive  fubjedi  in  a  regular  form  ;  or  without  in- 
tending a  great  or  regular  work  he  may  inveigh  a- 
gain  ft  particular  vices,  or  make  fome  moral  obferva- 
tions  on  human  life  and  characters. 

The  higheft  fpecies  of  dida£Hc  poetry  is  a  regular 
treatife  on  feme  pbilofophical,  grave,  or  ufeful  fubjecl. 
Such  are  the  books  of  Lucretius  de  Rerum  Naiura> 
the  Georgics  of  Virgil,  Pope's  Effay  on  Criticifm,  A- 
kenfide's  Pleafures  of  the  Imagination,  Armftrong  on 
Health,  and  the  Art  of  Poetry  by  Horace,  Vida,  and 
Boileau. 

In  all  fuch  works,  as  inftruclion  is  the  profefled 
obje£t,  the  chief  merit  confifts  in  found  thought,  juft 
principles,  and  apt  illuftrations.  It  is  neceilary  how- 
ever that  the  poet  enliven  his  lelTons  by  figures,  inci- 
dents, and  poetical  painting.  Virgil  in  his  GeorgicS 
embelliihes  the  mod  trivial  circumftances  in  rural  life. 
When  he  teaches  that  the  labour  of  the  farmer  muft 
begin  in  fpring,  he  exprefles  himfelf  thus  : 

Verenovo  geliduscanis  cum  montibus  humor 
Liquitur,  et  Zephyro  putris  fegleba  refolvit  ; 
Dcpr eflb  incipiat  jam  turn  mihi  Taurus  aratro 
Isgemere,  ct  fuko  attritus  fplendefcere  vomers 


2C0  DIDACTIC    P0ETRT. 

In  ail  didactic  works  fuch  method  is  requifite  as 
will  clearly  exhibit  a  connected  train  of  inftruction* 
With  regard  to  epifodes  and  embellishments,  writers 
of  didactic  poetry  are  indulged  great  liberties.  For  in 
a  poetical  performance  a  continued  feries  of  inftruc* 
tion  without  embelliihment  foon  fatigues.  The  di- 
greffions  in  the  Georgics  of  Virgil  are  his  principal 
beauties.  The  happinefs  of  a  country  life,  the  fable 
of  Ariileus,  and  the  tale  of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice, 
cannot  be  praifed  too  much. 

A  didactic  poet  ought  alfo  to  connect  his  epifodes 
with  his  fubject.  In  this,  Virgil  is  eminent.  Among 
modern  didactic  poets,.  Akenfide  and  Armftrong  are 
diftinguifhed.  The  former  is  rich  and  poetical  \  but 
the  latter  maintains  greater  equality,  and  more  chafte 
and  correct  elegance. 

Of  didaclic  poetry,  fatircs  and  epi files  run  into  the. 
mod  familiar  ilyle.  Satire  feems  to  have  been  at 
fir  ft  a  relic  of  ancient  comedy,  the  grofrhefs  of  which 
was  corrected  by  Ennius  and  Lucilius.  At  length,. 
Horace  brought  it  into  its  prefent  form.  Reforma- 
tion of  manners  is  its  profelTed  end  \  and  vice  and 
vicious  characters  are  the  objects  of  its  ceniure.  There 
are  three  different  modes  in  which  k  has  been  con- 
ducted by  the  three  great  ancient  fatirifts,  Horace,, 
Juvenal,  and  Perfius. 

The  fatires  of  Horace  have  not  much  elevation. 
They  exhibit  a  meafured  profe.  Eafe  and  grace 
characterize  his  manner  \  and  he  glances  rather  at  the: 
follies  and  weaknefTes  of  mankind,  than  at  their  vices. 
He  fmiles  while  he  reproves.  He  moralizes  like  a 
found  philofopher,  but  with  the  politenefs  of  a-  cour.~ 


DIDACTIC    POETRY.         «  201 

tier.  Juvenal  is  more  declamatory  and  ferious  \  and 
has  greater  ftrength  and  fire.  Perfius  has  diilinguifti- 
ed  himfelf  by  a  noble  and  fublim^  morality. 

Poetical  epiftles,  when  employed  on  moral  or  crit- 
ical fubje£ts,  feldom  rife  into  a  higher  ftrain  of  poet* 
ry,  than  fatires.  But  in  the  epiftolary  form,  many 
other  fubjecls  may  be  treated  \  as  love,  poetry,  or  ele- 
giac. The  ethical  epiftles  of  Pope  are  a  model  •,  and 
in  them  he  (hows  the  ftrength  of  his  genius.  Here 
he  had  a  full  opportunity  for  difplaying  his  judgment 
and  wit,  his  concife  and  happy  expreffion,  together 
with  the  harmony  of  his  numbers.  His  imitations  of 
Horace  are  fo  happy,  that  it  is  difficult  to  fay, 
whether  the  original  or  the  copy  ought  to  be  moil 
admired. 

Among  moral  and  dida&ic  writers,  Dr.  Young 
ought  not  to  be  palled  over  in  filence.  Genius  appears 
in  all  his  works  ;  but  his  Univerfal  Paffion  may  be 
confidered  as  pofleffing  the  full  merit  of  that  animat- 
ed concifenefs,  particularly  requisite  in  fatirical  and 
dida£tic  compofitions.  At  the  fame  time  it  is  to  be 
obferved,  that  his  wit  is  often  too  fparkling,  and  his 
fentences  too  pointed.  In  his  Night  Thoughts  there 
is  great  energy  of  expreflion,  feveral  pathetic  paf- 
fages,  many  happy  images,  and  many  pious  reflec- 
tions. But  the  fentiments  are  frequently  overftrained 
and  turgid,  and  the  ftyle  harlh  and  obfcure. 


202  DESCRIPTIVE    POETRY. 


DESCRIPTIVE    POETRY. 


I. 


LN  defcriptive  poetry  the  higheft  exertions  of 
genius  may  be  difplayed.  In  general,  indeed,  defcrip~ 
tion  is  introduced  as  an  embellifhment,  not  as  the 
fubje&  of  a  regular  work.  It  is  the  teft  of  a  poet's 
imagination,  and  always  diftinguifhes  an  original  from 
a  fecond  rate  genius.  A  writer  of  an  inferior  clafs 
fees  nothing  new  or  peculiar  in  the  object  he  would 
paint  ;  his  conceptions  are  loofe  and  vague ;  and  his 
expreffions  feeble  and  general.  A  true  poet  places  an 
object  before  our  eyes.  He  gives  it  the  colouring  of 
life  ;  a  painter  might  copy  from  him. 

The  great  art  of  pi£turefque  defcription  lies  in  the 
fele&ion  of  circumftances.  Thefe  ought  never  to  be 
vulgar  or  common.  They  fhould  mark  ftrongly  the 
object.  No  general  defcription  is  good  ;  all  diftin& 
ideas  are  formed  upon  particulars.  There  mould  alfo 
be  uniformity  in  the  circumftances  felecled.  In  de- 
ferring a  great  object,  every  circumftance  brought  for- 
ward fhould  tend  to  aggrandize ;  and  in  defcribing  a 
gay  obje£t,  all  the  circumftances  fhould  tend  to  beau^ 
tify  it.  Laftly,  the  circumftances  in  defcription  fhould 
be  expreffed  with  concifenefs  and  fimplicity. 

The  largeft  and  fulled  defcriptive  performance  in 
perhaps  any  language,  is  Thomfon's  Seafons  j  a  work 
which  pofTerTes  very  uncommon  merit.  The  ftyle  is 
fplendid  and  ftrong,  but  fometimes  harfh  and  indiftin£h 
He  is  an  animated   and  beautiful   defcriber ;  for  he 


DESCRIPTIVE   POETRY.  303 

liad  a  feeling  heart  and  a  warm  imagination.  He 
ftudied  nature  with  care  ;  was  enamoured  of  her 
beauties;  and  had  the  happy  talent  of  painting  them 
like  a  m after.  To  fhow  the  power  of  a  fingle  well- 
chofeo  circumftance  in  heightening  a  defcription,  the 
following  paiTage  may  be  produced  from  his  Summer, 
■where,  relating  the  effe&s  of  heat  in  the  torrid  zone, 
he  is  led  to  take  notice  of  the  peftilence  that  destroy- 
ed the  Englifli  fleet  at  Carthagena,  under  Admiral 
Vernon. 


-You,  gallant  Vernon,  faw 


The  miferable  fcene  :   you,  pitying,  faw 

To  infant  weaknefs  funk  the  warrior's  arm  ; 

Raw  the  deep  racking  pang  ;   the  ghaftly  form  ; 

The  lip  pale  quivering,  and  the  beamlefs  eye 

No  more  with  ardour  bright  ;  you  heard  the  groaas 

Of  agonizing  fhips  from  fhore  to  fhore  ; 

Heard  nightly  plung'd  amid  the  fuller*  waves 

The  frequent  corfe. 

All  the  circumftances  here  fele&ed  tend  to  height- 
en the  difmal  fcene  ;  but  the  laft  image  is  the  moll 
ilriking  in  the  picture. 

Of  defcriptive  narration  there  are  beautiful  examples 
in  Parneirs  Tale  of  the  Hermit.  The  fetting  forth  of 
the  hermit  to  vifit  the  world,  his  meeting  a  compan- 
ion, and  the  houfes  in  which  they  are  entertained,  of 
the  vain  man,  the  covetous  man,  and  the  good  man, 
are  pieces  of  highly  finifhed  painting.  But  the  richeft 
and  the  mod  remarkable  of  all  the  defcriptive  poems 
in  the  Englifh  language,  are  the  Allegro  and  the  Penfe- 
rofo  of  Milton.  They  are  the  ftore-houfe  whence 
many  fucceeding  poets  have  enriched  their  defcriptions, 


£04  DESCRIPTIVE   POETRY. 

and  are  inimitably  fine  poems.     Take,  for  inftanccj 
the  following  lines  from  the  Penferofo  : 


-I  walk  unfeen 


On  the  dry,  fmooth-fhaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  higheft  noon  ; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  fhe  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  riling  ground 
♦  I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  found, 

Over  fome  wide  watered  fhore 
Swinging  flow  with  folemn  roar  j  % 

Or,  if  the  air   will  net  permit, 
Some  dill  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 
Far  from  all  refort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  bellman's  drowfy  charm, 
To  blefs  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  | 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  feen  in  fome  high  lonely  tower, 
Exploring  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds,  or  what  vafl:  regions  hold 
Th'  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forfook 
Hermanfion  in  this  flefhy  nook  ; 
And  of  thefe  demons,  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground; 

Here  are  no  general  expreflions  ;  all  is  pi&urefque* 
expreflive,  and  concife.  One  ftrong  point  of  view  is 
exhibited  to  the  reader  \  and  the  impreflion  made,  is 
lively  and  interefting. 

Both  Homer  and  Virgil  excel  in  poetical  defcrip- 
tion.  In  the  fecond  JEneid,  the  facking  of  Troy  is  fo 
particularly  defcribed,  that  the  reader  finds  himfelf  in 


»ESCR1FTIVE   POETRY.  £05 

the  midft  of  the  fcene.  The  death  of  Priam  is  a 
mafter-piece  of  defcription.  Homer's  battles  are  all 
wonderful.  Oflian  too  paints  in  ftrong  colours,  and 
is  remarkable  for  touching  the  heart.  He  thus  pour- 
trays  the  ruins  of  Balclutha  :  "  I  have  feen  the  walls 
"  of  Balclutha  ;  but  they  were  defohte.  The  fire 
H  had  refounded  within  the  halls  ;  and  the  voice  of 
u  the  peGple  is  now  heard  no  more.  The  itream  of 
u  Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place  by  the  fall  of 
t%  the  walk  ;  the  thiflle  (hook  there  its  lonely  head  ; 
u  the  mofs  whittled  to  the  wind.  The  fcx  looked 
u  out  of  the  window  ;  the  rank  grafs  waved  round  his 
fS  head.  Defolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Mcina  j  filence 
64  is  in  the  houfe  of  her  fathers." 

Much  of  the  beauty  of  defcriptive  ptfetry  depends 
upon  a  proper  choice  of  epithets.  Many  poets  are 
often  carelefs  in  this  particular  ;  hence  the  multitude 
*  of  unmeaning  and  redundant  epithets.  Hence  the 
u  Liquidi  Fontes"  of  Virgil,  and  the  "  Prata  Canis 
"  Albicant  Pruinis"  of  Horace.  To  obferve  that  water 
is  liquid,  and  that  fnow  is  white,  is  little  better  than 
mere  tautology.  Every  epithet  fhould  add  a  new  idea 
to  the  word  which  it  qualifies.     So  in  Milton  : 

Who  fhall  tempt  with  wandering  feet 
The  dark,  unbottomed,  infinite  abyfs  ; 
And  through  the  palpable  obfeure  find   out 
Bis  uncouth  way  ?     Or  fpread  his  airy  flight, 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings, 
Over  the  vaft  abrupt  ? 

The  defcription  here  is  ftrengthened  by  the  epithets. 
The  wandering  feet,    the  unbottomed  abyfs,    the  pal 
pable   obfeure,  the    uncouth  way,   the  indefatigable 
wing,  are  ail  happy  expreffions. 
T 


Z06  THE    POETRY    OF    THE    HEBREWS, 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS. 

IN  treating  of  the  various  kinds  of  poetry,  that 
of  the  fcriptures  juftly  deferves  a  place.  The  facred 
books  prefent  us  the  moll  ancient  monuments  of 
poetry  now  extant,  and  furailh  a  curious  fubject  of 
critieifm.  They  difplay  the  taile  of  a  remote  age  and 
country.  They  exhibit  a  lingular,  but  beautiful  fpe- 
cies  of  composition  j  and  it  mud  give  great  pleafure* 
if  we  find  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  fiyle  adequate 
to  the  weight  and  importance  of  the  matter.  Div 
Lowth's  learned  treatife  on  the  poetry  of  the  Hebrews 
ought  to  be  perufed  by  all.  It  is  an  exceedingly  val- 
uable work  both  for  elegance  of  llyle^and  juflnefs  of 
criticifm.  We  cannot  do  better  than  to  follow  the 
track  of  this  ingenious  author. 

Among  the  Hebrews,  poetry  was  cultivated  from 
the  earlieft  times.  Its  general  con  ilr  act  ion  is  Gngu- 
lar  and  peculiar.  It  con  fids  in  dividing  every  period 
into  correfpondent,  for  the  mod  part  into  equal  mem- 
bers, which  anfwer  to  each  other  both  in  fenfe  and 
found.  In  the  fir  it  member  of  a  period  a  fentiment 
is  exprelTed  ;  and  in  the  fecend  the  fame  fentiment 
is  amplified,  or  repeated  in  different  terms,  or  fo.me- 
times  contrafted  with  its  oppoCte.  Thus,.  V  Sing.ua- 
u  to  the  Lord  a  new  fbng  ;  Hng  unto  the  Lord  ail  the 
€i  earth.  Sing  unto  the  Lord,  and  bkfs  his  name  ; 
u  (hew  forth  his  falvation  from  day  to  clay.  Declare 
41  his  glory  among  the  heathen  •,  his  wonders  among  ali 
"  people"; 


THE    POETRY    OF    THE    HEBREWS.  207 

This  form  of  poetical  compofition  is  deduced  from 
the  manner  in  which  the  Hebrews  fung  their  facred 
hymns.  Thefe  were  accompanied  with  mufic,  and 
performed  by  bands  of  fingers  and  muficians,  who  al- 
ternately an'fwered  each  other.  One  band  began  the 
hymn  thus  :  "  The  Lord  reigneth,  let  the  earth  re- 
14  joice  *,"  and  the  chorus,  or  femi-chorus,  took  up  the 
correfponding  verficle  \  "  Let  the  multitudes  of  the 
"  ifl«  be  glad  thereof." 

But,  independent  of  its  peculiar  mode  of  conftruc- 
tion,  the  facred  poetry  is  diftinguiOied  by  the  higheft 
beauties  of  ilrong,  coneife,  bold,  and  figurative  expref- 
fion.  Concifenefs  and  ftrength  are  two  of  its  moft 
remarkable  characters.  The  fentences  are  always 
fhort.  The  fame  thought  is  never  dwelt  upon  long* 
Hence  the  fublimity  of  the  Hebrew  poetry  ;  and  all 
writers,  who  attempt  th^  fublime,  might  profit  much 
by  imitating  in  this  refpe£t,  the  ftyle  of  the  old  tefta- 
ment.  No  writings  abound  fo  much  in  bold  and  an- 
imated figures,  as  the  facred  books.  Metaphors,  com- 
parifons,  allegories,  and  perfonifications,  are  particu- 
larly frequent.  But,  to  relifn  thefe  figures  juftly,  we 
mud  tranfport  ourfelves  into  Judea,  and  attend  to 
particular  circumllances  in  it.  Through  all  that  re- 
gion little  or  no  rain  falls  in  the  fummer  months. 
Hence,  to  reprcfent  diftrefs,  frequent  allufions  are 
made  to  a  dry  and  thirfly  land,  where  no  water  is  ; 
and  hence,  to  defcribe  a  change  from  diftrefs  to 
profperity,  their  metaphors  are  founded  on  the  fall- 
ing of  fhowers,  and  the  hurtling  out  of  fprings  in  a 
defrrt.  Thus  in  Ifanh,  "  The  wildernefs  and  the  foli- 
u  tary  place  (hall  be  glad,  and  the  defert  (hall  rejoice 
11  and  bloiTom   as   the  role.     For  id   the   wildernefs 


2o8  THK    POETRY    OF   THE    HEBREWS. 

"  fhall  waters  break  out,  and  dreams  in  the  dc*- 
*c  fert  ;  and  the  parched  ground  fhall  become  a  pool  i 
"  and  the  thirdy  land  fpringa  of  water  ;  in  the  habi- 
M  tation  of  dragons  there  (hall  be  grafs  with  rufhes 
14  and  reeds." 

Comparisons,  employed  by  the  facred  poets,  ard 
generally  fhort,  touching  only  one  point  of  refemblance. 
Such  is  the  following  :  "  He  that  ruleth  over  men, 
M  mull  be  juft,  ruling  in  the  fear  of  God  >  and  he 
M  &all  be  as  the  light  of  the  morning,  when  the  fun 
i$  rifeth  j  even  a  morning  without  clouds  *,  as  the 
! *  tender  grafs  Springing  out  of  the  earth  by  clear 
14  mining  after  rain." 

Allegory  is  likewifs  frequently  employed  in  the  fa- 

boefcs  \  and  a  fine  kihmce  of  this  occurs  in  the 

I ;  Jin,  wherein  the  people  of  Ifracl  are  compar- 

i  vine,     Of  parables,  the  prophetical  writing* 

arc  full  ,  and,  if  to  us  they  foraetimes  appear  obfeure, 

we  fliould  remember  that  in  early  times  it  was  univer- 

Sally  n  among  all  eadern  nations,  tb  convey 

under  rnyfterious  figures. 

The  figure,  however,  which  elevates  beyond  all  oth- 
ers the  poetical  ftyle  of  the  fcriptures,  is  perfonifica* 
tion.  The  petfonifications  of  the  infpired  writers  ex- 
ceed in  force  and  magni licence  thofe  of  all  other  po- 
ets This  is  more  particularly  true  when  any  ap- 
pearance or  operation  of  the  Almighty  is  concerned, 
"  Before  him  went  the  pedilence.  The  waters  Saw 
u  thee,  O  God,  and  were  afraid,  The  mountains  faw 
u  thee,  and  they  trembled.  The  overflowings  of  the 
"  waters  paflbd  by  ;  the  deep  uttered  his  voice, 
"  and  lifted  up  his  hands  on  bight?-  The  poetry  of 
the  fcriptures  is  very  different  from  modern    poetry* 


THE    POETRY    OF    THE    HEBREWS.  20^ 

It  is  the  burft  ofinfpiration.     Bold  fublimity,  not  cor- 
rect elegance,  is  its  character. 

The  feveral  kinds  of  poetry,  found  in  fcripture, 
are  chiefly  the  didactic,  elegiac,  paftoral,  and  lyric. 
The  book  of  Proverbs  is  the  principal  inftance  of  the 
didactic  fpecies'of  poetry.  Of  elegiac  poetry,  the  la- 
mentation of  David  over  Jonathan  is  a  very  beautiful 
inftance.  Of  paftoral  poetry,  the  Song  of  Solomon  is 
a  high  exemplification  ;  and  of  lyric  poetry,  the  Old 
Teftament  is  full.  The  whole  book  of  Pfalms  is  a 
collection  of  facred  odes* 

Among  the  compofers  of  the  facred  books  there  is 
an  evident  diverfity  of  ftyle.  Of  the  facred  poets,  the 
moil  eminent  are  the  author  of  the  book  of  Job,  Da- 
vid, and  Ifaiah.  In  the  compositions  of  David  there 
is  a  great  variety  of  manner.  In  the  foft  and  tender 
he  excels  ;  and  in  his  Pfalms  are  many  lofty  pafiages. 
But  in  ftrength  of  defcription  he  yields  to  Job ;  in  fub- 
limity,  to  Ifaiah.  Without  exception,  Ifaiah  is  the 
moil  fublime  of  all  poets.  Dr.  Lowth  compares  Ifai- 
ah to  Homer,  Jeremiah  to  Simonides,  and  Ezekiel  to 
iEfchyius.  Among  the  minor  prophets,  Hofea,  Joel, 
JNIicdh.  Habakkuk,  and  efpecially  Nahum,  are  diftin- 
guiihed  for  poetical  fpirit.  In  the  prophecies  of  Daniel 
and  Jonah  there  is  no  poetry. 

The  book  of  Job  is  extremely  ancient ;  the  author 
uncertain  ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  it  has  no  con- 
nexion with  the  affairs  or  manners  of  the  Hebrews. 
It  is  the  mod  defcriptive  of  all  the  facred  poems.  A 
peculiar  glow  of  fancy  and  ftrength  of  defcription 
characterise  the  author  ;  and  no  writer  abounds  fo 
much  in  metaphors.  He  renders  vifible,  whatever  lie 
T  2 


^IO  EPIC    POETRf. 

treats.  The  fcene  is  laid  in  the  land  of  Uz^  or  tdti- 
mxa,  which  is  a  part  of  Arabia  -,  and  the  imagery 
employed  differs  from  that  which  is  peculiar  to  the 
Hebrews. 


EPIC      POETRY. 

\JF  all  poetical  works  the  epic  poem  is  the 
moil  dignified.  To  contrive  a  (lory  which  is  enter- 
taining, important,  and  inftruciive  ;  to  enrich  it  with 
happy  incidents  ;  to  enliven  it  by  a  variety  of  char- 
acters and  descriptions  ;  and  to  maintain  a  uniform 
propriety  of  fentiment,  and  a  due  elevation  of  ftyle* 
are  the  higheit  efforts  of  poetical  genius. 

An  epic  poem  is  the  recital  of  fome  illuilrious  en«- 
terprife  in  a  poetical  form.  Epic  poetry,  is  of  a  mor- 
al nature  _j  and  tends  to  the  promotion  of  virtue.. 
With  this  view  it  a£ls  by  extending  our  ideas  of  per- 
fection, and  exciting  admiration.  Now  this  is  ac-. 
complifhed  only  by  proper  reprefentations  of  heroic 
deeds  and  virtuous  characters.  Valour,  truth,  juftice, 
fidelity,  friendihhp,  ynety,  and  magnanimity,  are  ob- 
jects which  the  epic  mufe  prefents  to  our  minds  in 
the  molt  fplendfed  and  honourable  colours. 

Epic  cornpofition  is  diftinguiihed  from  hiftory  by 
its  poetical  form,  and  its  liberty  of  fiction.  It  is  a 
more  calm  compolriion  than  tragedy.  It  requires  a 
grave,  equal,  and  fupported  dignity.  On  fome  occa- 
fions  it  demands  the  pathetic  and  the  violent  ;  and  it 
embraces  a  greater  compafs  of  time  and  aftion.  than 
dramatic  writing  admits, 


EPIC    POETRY*  j  Si! 

The  a&ion  or  fubjecl  of  aa  epic  poem  muff  have 
three  properties.  It  mud  be  one  •,  it  raul  be  great  , 
it  mud  be  intereiling.  One  a&ion  or  enterprife  mud 
conftitute  its  fubjecl.  Ariilctle  infills  on  unity  as  ef- 
fential  to  epic  poetry  ;  becaufe  independent  fuels  never 
affeel  fo  deeply,  as  a  tale  that  is  one  and  connected. 
Virgil  has  chofen  for  his  fubjedt  the  eflablifnment  of 
./Eneas  in  Italy  \  and  the  anger  of  Achill.es,  with  its 
confequences,  is  the  fubjecl  of  the  Iliad. 

It  is  not  however  to  be  understood,  that  epic  unity 
excludes  all  epifodes.  On  the  contrary,  critics  confider 
them  as  great  ornaments  of  epic  poetry.  They  di- 
vtriiiy  the  fubjecl,  and  relieve  the  reader  by  (Lifting 
the  fcene.  Thus  Heclor's  Yifrt  to  Andromache  in  the 
Iliad,  and  Erminia's  adventure  with  the  fbepherd  ia 
the  feventh  book  of  the  Jerufalem,  afford  us  a  well- 
judged  and  pleafing  retreat  from  camps  and  battles* 
Secondly,  the  fubjecl  of  an  epic  poem  mud  be  fo 
great  and  fplendid,  as  to  fix  attention,  and  to  juflify 
the  magnificent  apparatus  the  poet  beftows  on  it, 
The  fubjecl:  fhould  alfo  be  of  ancient  date.  Both  Lu- 
can  and  Voltaire  have  tranfgreffed  this  rule.  By  con- 
fining himfelf  too  firiclly  to  hiftorical  truth,  the  former 
does  not  pleafe  ;  and  the  latter  has  improperly  min* 
gled  well-known  events  with  fictitious.  Hence  they 
exhibit  not  that  greatnefs  which  the  epic  requires. 

The  third  requifite  in  an  epic  fubjecl  is,  that  it  be 
intereiling.  This  depends  in  a  great  meafure  upon 
the  choice  of  it.  But  it  depends  much  more  upon  the 
flcilful  management  of  the  poet.  He  mud  fo  frame 
his  plan,  as  to  comprehend  many  affecting  incidents. 
He  mud  fometimes  dazzle  with  valiant  achieve- 
laeuts  5;  fometimes  he  muil  be  awful  and  auguft  5  of* 


<£i2  EPIC    POETRY. 

ten  tender  and  pathetic  ;  and  he  muft  fometimes  give 
us  gentle  and  pleafing  fcenes  of  love,  friendfhip,  and 
affection. 

To  render  the  fubje£i  interefting,  much  alfo  de- 
pends upon  the  dangers  and  obftacles  which  muft  be 
encountered,  ft  is  by  the  management  of  thefe,  that 
the  poet  muft  roufe  attention,  and  hold  his  reader  in 
fufpenfe  and  agitation. 

It  is  generally  fuppofed  by  critics,  that  an  epic  pa- 
em  fhould  conclude  fuccefsfully  ;  as  an  unhappy  con- 
clufion  deprefTes  the  mind.  Indeed  it  is  on  the  pros- 
perous fide,  that  epic  poets  generally  conclude.  But 
two  authors  of  great  name,  Milton  and  Lucan,  hold 
the  contrary  eourfe.  The  one  concludes  with  the  fub- 
verfion  of  Roman  liberty;  and  the  other  Math  the  ex- 
pulfion  of  man  from  Paradife. 

No  precife  boundaries  can  be  fixed  for  the  duration 
of  the  epic  action.  The  action  of  the  Iliad  lafts,  ac- 
cording to  BcfTu,  only  fotty-feven  days.  The  .aclion 
of  the  OdyiTey  extends  to  eight  years  and  a  half  ;  and 
that  of  the  iEneid  includes  about  fix  years. 

The  perfonages  in  an  epic  poem  fhould  be  proper 
and  well  fuppcrted.  They  mould  difplay  the  features 
of  human  nature;  and  may  admit  different  degrees 
of  virtue,  and  even  vice;  though  the  principal  char- 
acters fhould  be  fuch  as  will  raife  admiration  and  love. 
Poetic  characters  are  of  two  forts,  general  and  partic- 
ular. General  characters  are  fuch  as  are  wife,  brave, 
and  virtuous,  without  any  farther  diftindtion.  Par- 
ticular characters  exprefs  the  fpecies  of  bravery,  of 
wifdom,  and  of  virtue,  for  which  any  one  is  remarka- 
ble. In  this  difcrimination  of  characters,  Homer  ex- 
cels. Tailb  approaches  the  nearer!  to  him  in  this  re* 
fpeCi  >  and  Virgil  is  the  molt  deficient. 


EPIC   POETRY.  213 

Among  epic  poets  it  is  the  practice  to  fele£l  fome 
perfonage  as  the  hero  of  the  tale.  This  renders  the 
unity  of  the  fubje£l  more  perfect,  and  contributes 
highly  to  the  interred  and  perfection  of  this  fpecies  of 
writing.  It  has  been  afked,  Who  then  is  the  hero  of 
Paradife  Loft  ?  The  devil,  fay  fome  critics,  who  af- 
fect: to  be  pleafant  again  (I  Milton.  But  they  miftake 
his  intention  by  fuppofing  that  whoever  is  triumphant 
in  the  clofe,  mult  be  the  hero  of  the  poem.  For  Ad- 
am is  Milton's  hero ;  that  is,  the  capital  and  mod  in- 
terefting  figure  in  his  poem. 

In  epic  poetry  there  are  befide  human  characters 
gods  and  fupernatural  beings.  This  forms  what  is 
Called  the  machinery  of  epic  poetry  5  and  the  French 
fe  this  efTential  to  the  nature  of  an  epic  poem* 
They  hold  that  in  every  epic  eompofition  the  main  ac- 
tion is  neceflarily  carried  <*n  by  the  intervention  of 
gods.  But  there  feems  to  be  no  folid  reafop  for  their 
opinion,  Lucan  has  no  gods,  nor  fupernatural  agents* 
The  author  of  Leonidas  alio  has  no  machinery. 

But,  though  machinery  is  net  absolutely  neccflary 
to  the  epic  plan,  it  ought  not  to  be  totally  excluded 
from  it.  The  marvellous  has  a  great  charm  for  moil 
readers.  It  leads  to  fublime  defcrlpdon,  and  fills  the 
imagination.  At  the  fame  time  it  becomes  a  poet  to 
be  temperate  in  the  ufe  of  fupernatural  machinery  ; 
and  fo  to  employ  the  religious  faith  or  fuperftition  of 
his  country,  as  to  give  an  air  of  probability  to  events 
mod  contrary  to  the  common  courfe  of  nature. 

With  regard  to  the  allegorical  perfonages,  fame, 
difcord,  love,  and  the  like,  they  form  the  word  kind 
of  machinery.  In  defcription  they  may  fometimes  be 
allowed  ;  but  they  fhould  never  bear  any  part  in  th$* 
action  of  the  poem.     As  they  are  only  mere  narries  of 


fcl4  EPIC    POETRY. 

general  ideas,  tliey  ought  not  to  be  confidered  as  per- 
fons  \  and  cannot  mingle  with  human  actors  without 
an  intolerable  confulion  of  fhadows  with  realities. 

In  the  narration  of  the  poet,  it  is  of  little  confe- 
quencc,  whether  he  relate  the  whole  itory  in  his  own 
character,  or  introduce  one  of  his  perfonages  to  relate 
a  pare  of  the  adlion  that  pa  fled  before  the  poem  opens. 
Homer  follows  one  method  in  his  Hind,  and  the  other 
in  his  OdyfTey.  It  is  to  be  obfer ved  however  that,  if 
the  narrative  be  given  by  any  of  the  actors,  it  gives 
the  poet  greater  liberty  of  fpreading  out  fuch  parts  of 
the  fubject  as  he  inclines  to  dwell  upon  in  perfon, 
and  of  comprifing  the  reft  within  a  lliort  recital. 
When  the  fubject  is  of  great  extent,  and  comprehends 
the  tranfactiens  of  fever <ri  years,  as  in  the  GdyfTey  and 
iEneid,  this  method  feems  preferable.  But,  when 
the  fubjecl-  is  of  fmaller  compafs  and  fnoner  duration, 
as  in  the  Iliad  and  Jerufalem,  the  poet  may,  without 
disadvantage,  relate  the  whole  in  his  own  perfon. 

What  is  of  moil  importance  in  the  narration  is, 
that  it  be  perfpicuous,  animated,  and  enriched  with  ev- 
ery poetic  beauty.  No  fort  of  compofition  requires 
more  ftrength,  dignity,  and  fire,  than  an  epic  poem. 
It  is  the  region  in  which  we  look  for  every  thing 
fublime  in  defrription,  tender  in  fentiment,  and  bold 
or  lively  in  expreiTion.  The  ornaments  of  epic  poet- 
ry are  grave  and  chafte.  Nothing  loofe,  ludicrous,  or 
affected,  finds  place  there.  All  the  objecls  it  pre- 
fents  ought  to  be  great,  tender,  or  pleafing.  De- 
fcriptions  of  difgufling  or  mocking  objects  are  to  be 
avoided.  Hence  the  fable  of  the  Harpies  in  the  JEnt\d% 
and  the  allegory  of  Sin  and  Death  in  Paradife  Loft, 
Ihould  have  been  omitted. 


HOMER  S    ILIAD.  ai£ 


HOMER's  ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY. 

X  HE  father  of  epic  poetry  is  Homer ;  and  in 
order  to  relim  him,  we  mull  diveit  ourfelves  of  mod- 
ern ideas  of  dignity  and  refinement,  and  tranfport  our 
imagination  almoft  three  thoufand  years  back  in  the 
hiftory  of  mankind.  The  reader  is  to  expect  a  pictuie 
of  the  ancient  world.  The  two  great  characters  of 
Homer's  poetry  are  fire  and  fimplicity.  But,  to  have 
a  clear  idea  of  his  merit,  let  us  confider  the  Iliad  un- 
der the  three  heads  of  the  fubjeft  or  a£lion3  the  char- 
acters, and  the  narration. 

The  fubject.  of  the  Iliad  is  happily  chofen.  .  For  no 
fubjecl  could  be  more  fp  lend  id  than  the  Trojan  W2r. 
A  great  confederacy  of  the  Grecian  ftates  and  ten 
years'  fiege  of  Troy  mud  have  fpread  far  abroad  the 
renown  of  many  military  exploits,  and  given  an  ex- 
tenfive  interelt  to  the  heroes  who  were  concerned  in 
them.  Upon  thefe  traditions,  Homer  grounded  his 
poem  \  and,  as  he  lived  two  or  three  centuries  after 
the  Trojan  war,  he  had  full  liberty  to  intermingle  fa- 
ble with  hiftory.  He  chofe  not,  however,  the  whole 
Trojan  war  for  his  fubjeel  ;  but  with  great  judgment 
felecled  the  quarrel  between  Achilles  and  Agamerr*- 
non,  which  includes  the  molt  interefting  period  of  the 
war.  He  has  thus  given  greater  unity  to  his  poem. 
He  has  gained  cne  hero,  or  principal  character,  that 
is,  Achilles  ;  and  fhown  the  pernicious  effects  of  dis- 
cord among  confederated  princes. 


%\6  HOMER'S    ILIAD. 

The  praife  of  high  invention  has  in  every  age  been 
juftly  given  to  Homer.  His  incidents,  fpeeches,  char- 
acters, divine  and  human;  his  battles,  his  little  hifto* 
ry  pieces  of  the  perfons  flain,  difcover  a  boundlefs  in- 
vention. Nor  is  his  judgment  lefs  worthy  of  praife. 
His  ftory  is  conduced  with  great  art.  He  rifes  upon 
us  gradually.  His  heroes  are  introduced  with  ex- 
quifite  (kill  to  our  acquaintance.  The  diftrefs  thick- 
ens as  the  poem  advances  ;  every  thing  ferves  to  ag- 
grandize Achilles,  and  to  make  him  the  capital  figure. 

In  characters, Homer  is  without  a  rival.  He  abounds 
in  dialogue  and  converfation,  and  this  produces  a  fpirit- 
cd  exhibition  of  his  perfonages.  This  dramatic  meth- 
od, however,  though  more  natural,  expreffive,  and  an- 
imated, is  lefs  grave  and  majeftic  than  narrative. 
Some  of  Homer's  fpeeches  are  unfeafonable,  and  oth* 
ers  trifling.  With  the  Greek  vivacity  he  has  alfo  forne 
of  the  Greek  loquacity. 

In  no  character  perhaps  does  he  difplay  greater  art, 
than  in  that  of  Helen.  Not  with  (landing  her  frailty 
and  crimes,  he  contrives  to  make  her  an  interefting  ob- 
ject. The  admiration  with  which  the  old  generals 
behold  her,  when  fhe  is  coming  toward  them  ;  her 
veiling  herfelf  and  (bedding  tears  in  the  prefence  of 
Priam  \  her  grief  at  the  fight  of  Menelaus  5  her  up- 
braiding of  Paris  for  his  cowardice,  and  her  returning 
fondnefs  for  him,  are  exquifite  flrokes,  and  worthy  of 
a  great  m after. 

Homer  has  been  accufed  of  making  Achilles  too 
ferutal  a  character ;  and  critics  feem  to  have  adopted 
this  cenfure  from  two  lines  of  Horace  : 

Impiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer, 

Jura  negat  iibi  uau  j  nihil  xion  arrogat  armif. 


HOMER'S  ILIAD.  217 

It  appears  that  Horace  went  beyond  the  truth.  A- 
chilles  is  paffionate  •,  but  he  is  not  a  contemner  of 
law.  He  has  reafon  on  his  fide  ;  for,  though  he  dif- 
covers  too  much  heat,  it  muft  be  allowed  that  he  had 
been  notorioufly  wronged.  Befide  bravery  and  con- 
tempt of  death,  he  has  the  qualities  of  opennefs  and 
fincerity.  He  loves  his  fubje&s,  and  refpe&s  the  gods. 
He  is  warm  in  his  friendfliips ;  and  throughout  he  is 
high-fpirited,  gallant  and  honourable. 

Homer's  gods  make  a  great  figure  •,  but  his  machine- 
ry was  not  his  own  invention.  He  followed  the  tra- 
ditions of  his  country.  But,  though  his  machinery  is 
often  lofty  and  magnificent,  yet  his  gods  are  often  de- 
ficient in  dignity.  They  have  all  the  human  paflions  5 
they  drink,  and  feaft,  and  are  vulnerable,  like  men. 
While,  however,  he  at  times  degrades  his  divinities, 
he  knows  how  to  make  them  appear  with  mod  awful 
majefty.  Jupiter  for  the  moft  part  is  introduced  with 
great  dignity  5  and  feveral  of  the  moft  fublime  con- 
ceptions in  the  Iliad  are  founded  on  the  appearances 
of  Neptune,  Minerva,  and  Appollo. 

The  ftyle  of  Homer  is  eafy,  natural,  and  highly  ani- 
mated. Of  all  the  great  poets,  he  is  the  moft  fimple 
in  his  ftyle,  and  refembles  moft  the  ftyle  of  the  poetic- 
al parts  of  the  Old  Teftament.  Pope's  tranflation  of 
him  affords  no  idea  of  his  manner.  His  verification 
however  is  allowed  to  be  uncommonly  melodious; 
and  to  carry  beyond  that  of  any  poet  refemblance  of 
found  to  fenfe. 

In  narration,  Homer  is  always  concife  and  defcrip- 
tive.  He  paints  his  objects  in  a  manner  to  our  fight. 
His  battles  are  Angularly  admirable.  We  fee  them 
U 


21 8  HOMER'S   ODYSSEY. 

in  all  their  hurry,  terror,  and  confufion.  In  fimiles 
no  poet  abounds  fo  much.  His  comparisons,  howev- 
er, taken  in  general,  are  not  his  greateft  beauties  •, 
they  come  upon  us  in  too  quick  fucceffion  ;  and  often 
difturb  his  narration  or  defcription.  His  lions,  bulls, 
eagles,  and  herds  of  fheep,  recur  too  frequently. 

The  criticifm  of  Longinus  upon  the  OdyfTey  is  not 
without  foundation  \  that  in  this  poem  Homer  may 
be  likened  to  the  fetting  fun,  whofe  grandeur  remains 
without  the  heat  of  his  meridian  beams.  It  wants  the 
vigour  and  fublimity  of  the  Iliad  ;  yet  poflefTes  fo  many 
beauties,  as  to  be  juftly  entitled  to  high  praife.  It  is 
a  very  amufing  poem,  and  has  much  greater  variety 
than  the  Iliad.  It  contains  many  interefting  ftories, 
and  pleafing  pictures  of  ancient  manners.  Inftead  of 
the  ferocity  which  pervades  the  Iliad,  it  prefents  us 
mod  amiable  images  of  humanity  and  hofpitality.  It 
ejitertains  us  with  many  a  wonderful  adventure,  and 
many  a  landfcape  of  nature  5  and  inftructs  us  by  a 
rich  vein  of  morality  and  virtue,  running  through  ev- 
ery part  of  the  poem. 

There  are  fome  defects  however  in  the  Odyffey. 
Many  of  its  fcenes  fall  below  the  majefty  of  an  epic 
poem.  The  laft  twelve  books  are  in  many  places  lan- 
guid and  tedious  ;  and  perhaps  the  poet  is  not  happy 
in  the  difcovery  of  UlyiTes  to  Penelope.  She  is  too 
cautious  and  diftruftful  \  and  we  meet  not  that  joyous 
furprife,  expected  on  fuch  an  occafion. 


THE   JENEID   OF   VIRGIL-  71$ 


THE  ^NEID  OF  VIRGIL. 

A.  HE  diflinguifhing  excellencies  of  the  iEneid 
are  elegance  and  tendernefs.  Virgil  is  lefs  animated 
and  lefs  fublime  than  Homer  *y  but  he  has  fewer  neg- 
ligencies,  greater  variety,  and  more  dignity.  The 
iEneid  has  all  the  correclnefs  and  improvements  o£ 
the  Auguftan  age.  We  meet  no  contention  of  he- 
roes about  a  female  Have  ;  no  violent  fcolding,  nor 
abufive  language  ;  but  the  poem  opens  with  the  ut- 
moft  magnificence. 

The  fubject  of  the  iEneid,  which  is  the  eftablifh- 
ment  of  iEneas  in  Italy,  is  extremely  happy.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  interefting  to  the  Romans  than 
Virgil's  deriving  their  origin  from  fo  famous  a  hero 
as  JEneas.  The  object  was  fplendid  itfelf ;  it  gave 
the  poet  a  theme,  taken  from  the  traditionary  hiftory 
of  his  country ;  it  allowed  him  to  adopt  Homer's 
mythology  v  and  afforded  him  frequent  opportunities 
of  glancing  at  all  the  future  great  exploits  of  the  Ro- 
mans, and  of  describing  Italy  in  its  ancient  and  fab- 
ulous (late. 

Unity  of  action  is  perfectly  preferved  in  the  iEneid. 
The  fettlement  of  iEneas  in  Italy  by  order  of  the  gods 
is  conftantly  kept  in  view.  The  epifodes  are  proper- 
ly linked  to  the  main  fubject ;  and  the  nodus  or  in- 
trigue of  the  poem  is  happily  formed.  The  wrath  of 
Juno,  who  oppofes  jEneas,  gives  rife  to  all  his  difficul- 
ties, and  connects  the  human  with  the  celeftial  opera- 
tions through  the  whole  poem. 


£20  THE  JENEID   OF  VIRGIL. 

Great  art  and  judgment  are  difplayed  in  the  JEneid  5 
but  even  Virgil  is  not  without  his  faults.  One  is,  that 
he  has  fo  few  marked  characters.  Achates,  Cloanthes, 
Gyas,  and  other  Trojan  heroes,  who  accompanied 
JEneas  into  Italy,  are  undiftinguifhed  figures.  Even 
JEneas  himfelf  is  not  a  very  interefting  hero.  He  is 
defcribed,  indeed,  as  pious  and  brave  a-  but  his  charac- 
ter is  not  marked  by  thofe  ftrokes  that  touch  the 
heart.  The  character  of  Dido  is  the  belt  fupported 
in  the  whole  iEneid.  Her  warmth  of  paflion,  keen- 
nefs  of  refentment,  and  violence  of  character,  exhibit 
a  more  animated  figure  than  any  other  Virgil  has 
drawn. 

The  management  of  the  fubject  alfo  is  in  fome  rer 
fpects  exceptionable.  The  fix  laft  books  received  not 
the  finishing  hand  of  the  author  -%  and  for  this  reafon 
he  ordered  his  poem  to  be  committed  to  the  flames. 
The  wars  with  the  Latins  are  in  dignity  inferior  to  the 
more  interefting  objects  previously  prefented  to  us  3, 
and  the  reader  is  tempted  tp  take  part  with  Turnus 
againft  JEneas. 

The  principal  excellency  of  Virgil,  and  what  he 
poiTeffes  beyond  all  poets,  is  tendernefs.  His  foul  was 
full  of  fenfibility.  He  felt  himfelf  all  the  affecting 
circumfiances  in  the  fcenes  he  defcribes  -9  and  knew 
how  by  a  fingle  ftroke  to  reach  the  heart.  In  an  epic 
poem,  this  merit  is  next  to  fublimity.  The  fecond 
book  of  the  iEneid  is  one  of  the  greateft  mafter-pieces 
ever  executed.  The  death  of  old  Priam,  and  the  fam- 
ily-pieces of  ^Eneas,  Anchifes,  and  Creufa,  are  as 
tender  as  can  be  conceived.  In  the  fourth  book,  the 
unhappy  paflion  and  death  of  Dido  are  admirable. 
The  interview  of  iEneas  with  Andromache  and  He* 


LUCAn's  PHARSALIA,  221 

lenus  in  the  third  book  ;  the  epifodes  of  Pallas  and 
Evander,  of  Nifus  and  Euryalus,  of  Laufus  and  Me* 
zentius,  are  all  ftriking  inftances  of  the  power  of  raif- 
ing  the  tender  emotions.  The  bed  and  moft  finifhed 
books  are  the  firft,  fecond,  fourth,  fixth,  feventh,  eighth, 
and  twelfth. 

Virgil's  battles  are  in  fire  and  fublimity  far  inferior 
to  Homer's.  But  in  one  important  epifode,  the  de- 
fcent  into  hell,  he  has  outdone  Homer  in  the  Odyfley 
by  many  degrees.  There  is  nothing  in  all  antiquity, 
equal  in  its  kind  to  the  fixth  book  of  the  JEneid.  The 
fcenery,  the  objects,  and  the  defcription,  are  great, 
folemn  and  fublime. 

With  regard  to  the  comparative  merit  of  thefe  two 
great  princes  of  epic  poetry,  it  mud  be  allowed  that 
Homer  was  the  greater  genius,  and  Virgil  the  more 
corre£t  writer.  Homer  is  more  original,  more  bold, 
more  fublime,  and  more  forcible.  In  judgment  they 
are  both  eminent.  Homer  has  all  the  Greek  vivaci- 
ty ;  Virgil  all  the  Roman  ftatelinefs.  The  imagina- 
tion of  Homer  is  the  moft  copious  ;  that  of  Virgil 
the  moft  corre£V.  The  ftrength  of  the  former  lies  in 
warming  the  fancy  ;  that  of  the  latter  in  touching  the 
heart.  Homer's  ftyle  is  more  fimple  and  animated  y 
Virgil's  more  elegant  and  uniform. 


LUCAN's  PHARSALIA. 


U 


iUCAN  is  inferior  to  Homer  and  Virgil  5 
yet  he  deferves  attention.     There  is  little"  invention 
in  his  Pharfalia  5  and  it  is  conduced  in  too  hiftoricai 
U  z 


%%%  lucak's  pharsalia. 

a  manner  to  be  ftrl&ly  epic.  It  may  be  arranged^ 
however,  in  the  epic  clafs,  as  it  treats  of  great  and  he- 
roic adventures.  The  fubjeft  of  the  Pharfalia  has  all 
the  epic  dignity  and  grandeur  ;  and  it  pofleffes  unity 
of  obje£t,  vi2.  the  triumph  of  Csefar  over  Roman  lib- 
erty. 

But,  though  the  fubje£t  of  Lucan  is  confeffedly  he- 
roic, it  has  two  defedts.  Civil  wars  prefent  obje&s 
too  fliocking  for  epic  poetry,  and  furnifli  odious  and 
difgufting  views  of  human  nature.  But  Lucan's  ge- 
nius feems  to  delight  in  favage  fcenes. 

The  other  defeit  of  Lucan's  fubjett  is,  that  it  was 
too  near  the  time  in  which  he  lived.  This  deprived 
him  of  the  afliftance  of  fi£tion  and  machinery  •,  and 
thereby  rendered  his  work  lefs  fplendid  and  amufing. 
The  fads  on  which  he  founds  his  poem,  were  too 
well  known,  and  too  recent  to  admit  fables  and  the  in- 
terpolation of  gods. 

The  charafters  of  Lucan  are  drawn  with  fpirit  and 
force.  But,  though  Pompey  is  his  hero,  he  has  not 
made  him  very  interefting.  He  marks  not  Pompey 
by  any  high  diftin&ion,  either  for  magnanimity  or  val- 
our. He  is  always  furpaffed  by  Caefar.  Cato  is  Lu- 
can's  favourite  charader  •,  and,  whenever  he  intro- 
duces him,  he  rifes  above  himfelf. 

In  managing  his  fiory,  Lucan  confines  himfelf  too 
much  to  chronological  order.  This  breaks  the  thread 
of  his  narration,  and  hurries  him  from  place  to  place. 
He  is  alfo  too  digreffive  •,  frequently  quitting  his  fub- 
je£l,  to  give  us  fome  geographical  defcription,  or  phi- 
losophical difquifition. 

There  are  feveral  poetical  and  fpirited  descriptions 
in  the  Pharfalia  5  but  the  ftrength  of  this  poet  does 


LUCAN'S  PHARSALIi.  22$ 

not  lie  either  in  narration  or  description.  His  narra- 
tion is  often  dry  and  harfh  ;  his  defcriptions  are  often 
overwrought,  and  employed  on  difagreeable  objects. 
His  chief  merit  confifts  in  his  fentiments  ;  which  are 
noble,  ftriking,  glowing,  and  ardent.  He  is  the  mod 
philosophical,  and  the  moft  patriotic  poet  of  antiquity. 
He  was  a  ftoic ;  and  the  fpirit  of  that  philofophy 
breathes  through  his  poem.  He  is  elevated  and 
bold  ;  and  abounds  in  well-timed  exclamations  and 
apoftrophes. 

A§  his  vivacity  and  fire  are  great,  he  is  apt  to  be 
carried  away  by  them*  His  great  defect  is  want  of 
moderation*  He  knows  not  where  to  flop.  When 
he  would  aggrandize  his  objects,  he  becomes  tumid 
and  unnatural.  There  is  much  bombaft  in  his 
poem.  His  tafte  is  marked  with  the  corruption  of 
his  age ;  and,  inftead  of  poetry,  he  often  exhibits 
declamation. 

On  the  whole,  however,  he  is  an  author  of  lively 
and  original  genius.  His  high  fentiments  and  his  fire 
ferve  to  atone  for  many  of  his  defects.  His  genius 
had  ftrength,  but  no  tendernefs,  nor  amenity.  Com- 
pared with  Virgil,  he  has  more  fire  and  fublimer 
fentiments  ;  but  in  every  thing  elfe  falls  infinitely 
below  him,  particularly  in  purity,  elegance,  and  ten- 
dernefs. 

Statius  and  Silius  Italicus,  though  poets  of  the 
epic  clafs,  are  too  inconfiderable  for  particular  crit~ 
kifai. 


£24  TASSO's  JERUSALEM 


TASSO's   JERUSALEM. 

JERUSALEM  DELIVERED  is  a  ftriaiy 
regular  epic  poem  and  abounds  with  beauties.  The 
fubject  is  the  recovery  of  Jerufalem  from  Infidels  by 
the  united  powers  of  Chriftendom.  The  enterprize 
was  fplendid,  venerable,  and  heroic  ;  and  an  interest- 
ing contrail  is  exhibited  between  the  Chriftians  and 
Saracens.  Religion  renders  the  fubje£l  auguft,  and 
opens  a  natural  field  for  machinery  and  fublime  de«« 
fcription.  The  a£iion  too  lies  in  a  country,  and  in  a 
period  of  time,  fufficiently  remote  to  admit  an  inter- 
mixture of  fable  with  hiftbry. 

Rich  invention  is  a  capital  quality  in  TaiTo.  He  is 
full  of  events,  finely  diverfified.  He  never  fatigues 
his  reader  by  mere  war  and  fighting.  He  frequently 
fliifts  the  fcene  \  and  from  camps  and  battles  trans- 
ports us  to  more  pleafing  objects.  Sometimes  the 
folemnities  of  religion  \  fometimes  the  intrigues  of 
love ;.  at  other  times  the  adventures  of  a  journey,  or 
the  incidents  of  paftoral  life,  relieve  and  entertain  the 
reader.  The  work  at  the  fame  time  is  artfully  con- 
nected \  and,  in  the  midft  of  variety,  there  is  perfedfc: 
unity  of  plan. 

Many  characters  enliven  the  poem  \  and  thefe  dif- 
tlnclly  marked  and  well  fupported.  Godfrey,  the 
leader  of  the  enterprife,  is  prudent,  moderate,  and 
brave  ;  Tancred  amorous,  generous,  and  gallant.  Ri» 
naldo,  who  is  properly  the  hero  of  the  poem^  is  paf- 
fionate  and  refentful  \  but  full  of  zeal,  honour,  and 
heroifm.    Solyman  is  high-minded  \  Erminia  tender  $ 


TASSO'S  JERUSALEM.  22jf 

Armida  artful  and  violent,  and  Clorinda  mafculine. 
In  drawing  characters,  Taflb  is  fuperior  to  Virgil,  and 
yields  to  no  poet  but  Homer. 

He  abounds  in  machinery.  When  celeftial  beings 
interpofe,  his  machinery  is  noble.  But  devils,  en- 
chanters, and  conjurors  act  too  great  a  part  throughout 
his  poem.  In  general,  the  marvellous  is  carried  to  ex- 
travagance. The  poet  was  too  great  an  admirer  of 
the  romantic  fpirit  of  knight-errantry. 

In  defcribing  magnificent  objects,  his  ftyle  is  firm 
and  majeftic.  In  gay  and  pleafing  description,  it  is 
foft  and  infinuating.  Erminia's  paftoral  retreat  in  the 
feventh  book,  and  the  arts  and  beauty  of  Armida  in, 
the  fourth  book,  are  exquifitely  beautiful.  His  battles 
are  animated,  and  properly  varied  by  incidents.  It  is, 
rather  by  actions,  characters,  and  defcriptions,  that  he 
interefts  us,  than  by  the  fentimental  part  of  his  work. 
He  is  far  inferior  to  Virgil  in  tendernefs ;  and,  when 
he  aims  at  being  fentimental  and  pathetic,  he  is  apt  to, 
become  artificial. 

It  has  often  been  objected  toTaflb,  that  he  abounds 
in  point  and  conceit  ;  but  this  cenfure  has  been  car- 
ried too  far.  For,  in  his  general  character,  he  is  maf- 
culine and  ftrong.  The  humour  of  decrying  him  paff- 
ed  from  the  French  critics  to  thofe  of  England.  But 
their  ftridtures  are  founded  either  in  ignorance  or 
prejudice.  For  the  Jerufalem  is,  in  my  opinion,  the 
third  regular  epic  poem  in  the  world  -,  and  (lands  next 
to  the  Iliad  and  .iEneid.  In  fimplicity  and  fire,  Taflb 
is  inferior  to  Homer  ;  in  tendernefs  to  Virgil  •,  in  fub- 
limity  to  Milton  ;  but  for  fertility  of  invention,  vari- 
ety of  incidents,  expreffion  of  characters,  richnefs  of 
defcription,  and  beauty  of  ftyle,  no  poet,  except  the 
three  juft  named,  cau  be  compared  to  him. 


226  THE   LUSIAD   OF   CAMOEN9* 


THE  LUSIAD  OF  CAMOENS. 

A  HE  Portuguefe  boaft  of  Camoens,  as  the  Ital- 
ians do  of  Taflb.  The  difcovery  of  the  Eaft  Indies  by 
Vafco  de  Gama,  an  enterprife  alike  fpiendid  and  in- 
terefting,  is  the  fubje£t  of  the  poem  of  Camoens. 
The  adventures,  diftreiTes,  and  actions  of  Vafco  and 
his  countrymen,  are  well  fancied  and  defcribed  ;  and 
the  Lufiad  is  conducted  on  the  epic  plan.  The  inci- 
dents of  the  poem  are  magnificent  \  and,  joined  with 
fome  wildnefs  and  irregularity,  there  is  difplayed  in  it 
much  poetic  fpirit,  ftrong  fancy,  and  bold  defcription. 
In  the  poem,  however,  there  is  no  attempt  toward 
painting  characters-  Vafco  is  the  hero,  and  the  only 
perfonage  that  makes  any  figure. 

The  machinery  of  the  Lufiad  is  perfectly  extrava- 
gant ;  being  formed  of  an  odd  mixture  of  Chriflian 
ideas  and  Pagan  mythology.  Pagan  divinities  appear 
to  be  the  deities  ;  and  Chrift  and  the  Holy  Virgin  to 
be  inferior  agents.  One  great  objecT:,  however,  of  the 
Portuguefe  expedition  is  to  extend  the  empire  of 
Chriftiamty,  and  to  extirpate  Mahometanifm.  In  this 
religious  undertaking  the  chief  protector  of  the  Portu- 
guefe is  Venus,  and  their  great  adverfary  is  Bacchus. 
Jupiter  is  introduced,  as  foretelling  the  downfal  of 
Mahomet.  Vafco  during  a  dorm  implores  the  aid  of 
Chrift  and  the  Virgin  ;  and  in  return  to  this  prayer 
Venus  appears,  and,  difcovering  the  ftorm  to  be  the 
work  of  Bacchus,  complains  to  Jupiter,  and  procures 
the  winds  to  be  calmed.     All  this  is  moil  prepofter- 


THE   LUSIAD   OF   CAMOENS.  227 

ous  5  but,  toward  the  end  of  his  work,  the  poet  offers 
an  awkward  apology  for  his  mythology  ;  making  the 
goddefs  Thetes  inform  Vafco  that  (he  and  the  other 
heathen  divinities  are  no  more  than  names  to  defcribe 
the  operations  of  Providence. 

In  the  Lufiad,  however,  there  is  fome  fine  machine- 
ry of  a  different  kind.  The  appearance  of  the  genius 
of  the  river  Ganges  in  a  dream  to  Emanuel,  king  of 
Portugal,  inviting  him  to  difcover  his  fecret  fprings, 
and  acquainting  him  that  he  was  the  monarch,  deftin- 
ed  to  enjoy  the  treafures  of  the  Eaft,  is.  a  happy  idea. 
But  in  the  fifth  canto  the  poet  difplays  his  nobleft  con- 
ception of  this  fort,  where  Vafco  recounts  to  the  king 
of  Melinda  all  the  wonders  of  his  voyage.  He  tells 
him  that,  when  the  fleet  arrived  at  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  which  had  never  been  doubled  before  by  any 
navigator,  there  appeared  to  them  fuddenly  a  huge 
phantom,  rifing  out  of  the  fea  in  the  midft  of  temped 
and  thunder,  with  a  head  that  reached  the  clouds,  and 
a  countenance,  that  filled  them  with  terror.  This  was 
the  genius  of  that  hitherto  unknown  ocean  ;  and  he 
menaced  them  in  a  voice  of  thunder  for  invading  thofe 
unknown  feas  ;  foretelling  the  calamities  that  were  to 
befal  them,  if  they  mould  proceed  ;  and  then  with  a 
mighty  noife  difappeared.  This  is  a  very  folemn  and 
finking'  piece  of  machinery  ;  and  {hows  that  Camoens 
was  a  poet  of  a  bold  and  lofty  imagination. 


228  THE   TELEMACHUS  OF   FENELON. 


THE  TELEMACHUS  OF  FENELON. 

XT  would  be  unpardonable  in  a  review  of  epic 
poets  to  forget  the  amiable  Fenelon.  His  work, 
though  in  profe,  is  a  poem  ;  and  the  plan  in  general 
is  well  contrived,  having  epic  grandeur  and  unity  of 
a£lion.  He  employs  the  ancient  mythology ;  and  ex- 
cels in  application  of  it.  There  is  great  richnefs  as 
well  as  beauty  in  his  defcriptions.  To  foft  and  calm 
fcenes,  his  genius  is  more  peculiarly  fuited  •,  fuch  as 
the  incidents  of  paftoral  life,  the  pleafures  of  virtue, 
or  a  country  flourifliing  in  peace. 

His  firft  books  are  eminently  excellent.  The  ad- 
ventures of  Calypfo  are  the  chief  beauty  of  his  work. 
Vivacity  and  intereft  join  in  the  narration.  In  the 
books  which  follow,  there  is  lefs  happinefs  in  the  exe- 
cution, and  an  apparent  languor.  The  author  in  war« 
like  adventures  is  molt  unfortunate. 

Some  critics  have  refufed  to  rank  this  work  among 
epic  poems.  Their  obje£tibn  arifes  from  the  minute 
details  it  exhibits  of  virtuous  policy,  and  from  the  dif- 
courfes  of  Mentor,  which  recur  too  frequently,  and  too 
much  in  the  flrain  of  common-place  morality.  To 
thefe  peculiarities,  however,  the  author  was  led  by  the 
defign  with  which  he  wrote,  that  of  forming  a  young 
prince  to  the  cares  and  duties  of  a  virtuous  monarch. 

Several  epic  poets  have  defcribed  a  defcent  into 
hell ;  and  in  the  profpe&s  they  have  given  us  of  the 
invifible  world,  we  may  obferve  the  gradual  refine- 
ment in  the  opinions  of  men  concerning  a  future  ftate 


THE    HENRIADE   OF   VOLTAIRE.  229 

xrf  rewards  and  punifhments.  Homer's  defcent  of  U- 
lyfles  into  hell  is  indiftindt  and  dreary.  The  fcene  is 
in  the  country  of  the  Cimmerians,  which  is  always 
covered  with  clouds  and  darknefs ;  and,  when  the 
fpirits  of  the  dead  appear,  we  hardly  know  whether 
UlyfTes  is  above  or  below  ground.  The  ghofts  too, 
even  of  the  heroes,  appear  duTatisfied  with  their  con- 
dition. 

In  Virgil,  the  defcent  into  hell  difcovers  great  refine- 
ment, correfponding  to  the  progrefs  of  philofophy. 
The  objects  are  more  diftindt,  grand,  and  awful. 
There  is  a  fine  defcription  of  the  feparate  manfions 
of  good  and  bad  fpirits.  Fenelon's  vifit  of  Telemachus 
to  the  ihades  is  fiill  much  more  philofophical  than 
Virgil's.  He  refines  the  ancient  mythology  by  his 
knowledge  of  the  true  religion,  and  adorns  it  with 
that  beautiful  enthuGafm,  for  which  he  is  fo  remarka- 
ble. His  relation  of  the  happinefs  of  the  juft  is  an 
excellent  defcription  in  the  my  (lie  ftrain. 


THE  HENRIADE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

X  HEHenriade  is  without  doubt  a  regular  epic 
poem.  In  feveral  places  of  this  work,  Voltaire  difcov- 
ers that  boldnefs  of  conception,  that  vivacity  and  live- 
linefs  of  expreflion,  by  which  he  is  fo  much  diftinguifh- 
ed.  Several  of  hi3  comparifons  are  new  and  happy. 
But  the  Henrhde  is  not  his  mafter-piece.  In  the  tragic 
line  he  has  certainly  been  more  fuecefsful,  than  in  the 
epic.  French  verification  is  illy  fuited  to  epic  poetry. 
W 


230  THE   HENRIADE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

It  is  not  only  fettered  by  rhyme,  but  wants  elevation* 
Hence  not  only  feeblenefs,  but  forhetimes  profaic  flat- 
nefs  in  the  ftyle.  The  poem  eonfequently  languifhes, 
and  the  reader  is  not  animated  by  that  fpirit  which  is 
infpired  by  a  fublime  compofition  of  the  epic  kind. 

The  triumph  of  Henry  IV.  over  the  arms  of  the 
League  is  the  fubject  of  the  Henriade.  The  action  of 
the  poem  properly  includes  only  the  fiege  of  Paris.  It 
is  an  action  perfectly  epic  ;  and  conducted  with  due 
fregard  to  unity,  and  to  the  rules  of  critics.  But  it  has 
great  defects.  It  is  founded  on  'civil  wars  ;  and  pre- 
fents  to  the  mind  thofe  odious  objects,  maflacres  and 
aflaffinations.  It  is  alfo  of  too  recent  date,  and  too 
much  within  the  bounds  of  well-known  hiftory.  The 
author  has  farther  erred  by  mixing  fiction  with  truth. 
The  poem,  for  inflance,  opens  with  a  voyage  of  Hen- 
ry's to  England,  and  an  interview  between  him  and 
Queen  Elizabeth  ;  though  Henry  never  faw  England, 
nor  ever  converfed  with  Elizabeth.  In  fubjects  of 
fuch  notoriety  a  fiction  of  this  kind  fhocks  every  in- 
telligent reader. 

A  great  deal  of  machinery  is  employed  by  Voltaire 
for  the  purpofe  of  embellifhing  his  poem.  But  it  is  of 
the  word  kind,  that  of  allegorical  beings.  Difcord, 
cunning,  and  love  appear  as  perfonages,  and  mix 
with  human  actors.  This  is  contrary  to  all  rational 
criticifm.  Ghofts,  angels,  and  devils,  have  a  popular 
exiftence  •,  but  every  one  knows  that  allegorical  beings 
are  no  more  than  reprefentations  of  human  paffions 
and  difpofitions  5  and  ought  not  to  have  place,  as  act- 
ors, in  a  poem  which  relates  to  human   tranfadlions. 

In  juftice  however  it  muft  be  obferved,  that  the  ma- 
chinery of  St.  Louis  pofTefles  real  dignity.  The  prof- 
pect  of  the  invifible  world,  which  St.  Louis  gives  to 


milton's  paradise  lost.  231 

Henry  in  a  dream,  is  the  fineft  pafiage  in  the  Henriade. 
Death  bringing  the  fouls  of  the  departed  in  fucceflion 
before  God,  and  the  palace  of  the  deftinies  opened  to 
Henry,  are  finking  and  magnificent  objects. 

Though  fome  of  Voltaire's  epifodes  are  properly  ex- 
tended, his  narration  is  tpo  general.  The  events  are 
fuperficially  related,  and  too  much  crowded.  The 
{train  of  fentiment,  however,  which  pervades  the  Hen- 
riade, is  high  and  noble. 


MILTON's  PARADISE  LOST. 

XyJLILTON  chalked  out  a  new  and  very  extra- 
ordinary courfe.  As  foon  as  we  open  his  Paradife 
Loft,  we  are  introduced  into  an.invifible  world,  and 
furrounded  by  celeflial  and  infernal  beings.  Angels 
and  devils  are  not  his  machinery,  but  his  principal 
adtors.  What  in  any  other  work  would  be  the  marvel- 
lous, is  in  this  the  natural  courfe  of  events  •,  and  doubts 
may  arifc,  whether  his  poem  be  ftriclly  an  epic  compo- 
fition.  But,  whether  it  be  fo  or  not,  it  is  certainly  one 
of  the  highefl  efforts  of  poetical  genius  ;  and  in  one 
great  chara£leriiltc  of  epic  poetry,  majefty  and  fublim- 
ky,  is  equal  to  any  that  bears  this  name. 

The  fubject  of  his  poem  led  Milton  upon  difficult 
ground.  If  it  had  been  more  human  and  lefs  theolog- 
ical ;  if  his  occurrences  had  been  more  connected 
with  real  life  •,  if  he  had  afforded  a  greater  difplay  of 
the  characters  and  paflions  of  men  ;  his  poem  would 
have  been  more  pleafing  to  moil  readers.  Hisfubje£t 
however  was  peculiarly  fuited  to  the  daring  fublimity 
of  his  genius.     As  he  alone  was  fitted  for  it,  fo  he 


232  MILTON  S    PARADISE    LOST. 

has  fhown  in  the  conduct  of  it  a  wonderful  ftretch  of 
imagination  and  invention.  From  a  few  hints,  given 
in  the  facred  fcriptures,  he  has  raifed  a  regular  ftruc- 
ture,  and  rilled  his  poem  with  a  variety  of  incidents. 
He  is  fometimes  dry  and  harfli  ;  and  too  often  the 
metaphyfician  and  divine.  But  the  general  tenor  of 
his  work  is  interefting,  elevated,  and  affecting.  The 
artful  change  of  his  objects,  and  the  icene,  laid  now  in 
heaven,  now  on  earth,  and  now  in  hell,  afford  fuSicient 
diverfity  *,  while  unity  of  plan  is  perfectly  fupported. 
Calm  fcenes  are  exhibited  in  the  employments  of  Adam 
and  Eve  in  Paradife ;  and  bufy  fcenes,  and  great  ac- 
tions, in  the  enterprifes  of  Satan,  and  in  the  wars  of 
angels.  The  amiable  innocence  of  our  firft  parents, 
anc}  the  proud  ambition  of  Satan,  afford  a  happy  con- 
trail through  the  whole  poem,  which  gives  it  an  un- 
common charm.  But  the  conclufion  perhaps  is  too 
tragic  for  epic  poetry. 

The  fubject;  naturally  admits  no  great  difplay  of 
characters  ;  but  fuch  as  could  be  introduced,  are 
properly  fupported.  Satan  makes  a  finking  figure  ; 
and  is  the  beft  drawn  character  in  the  poem.  Milton 
has  artfully  given  him  a  mixed  character,  not  altogeth- 
er void  of  fome  gtfod  qualities.  He  is  brave,  and 
faithful  to  his  troops.  Amid  his  impiety,  he  is  not 
without  remorfe.  He  is  even  touched  with  pity  for 
our  firft  parents  ;  and  from  the  neceffity  of  his  fituation, 
juftifies  his  defign  againft  them.  He  is  actuated  by 
ambition  and  refentment,  rather  than  by  pure  malice. 
The  characters  of  Beelzebub,  Moloch,  and  Belial,  are 
well  painted.  The  good  angels,  though  defcribed 
with  dignity,  have  more  uniformity  of  character.  A- 
mong  them  however  the  mild  condefcenffon  of  Ra- 
phael, and  the  tried  fidelity  of  Abdiel,   form  proper 


milton's  paradise  lost.  233 

characteriftic  diftinctions.  The  attempt  to  defcribe 
God  Almighty  himfelf  was  too  bold,  and  accordingly 
moll  unfuccefsful.  The  innocence  of  our  firfh  pa- 
rents is  delicately  painted.  In  fome  fpeeches  perhaps 
Adam  appears  too  knowing  and  refined  for  his  fitua- 
tion.  Eve  is  hit  off  more  happily.  Her  gentlenefs, 
modefty,  and  frailty,  are  expreffively  characteriftic  of 
the  female  character. 

Milton's  great  and  diflinguifhing  excellence  is  his 
fublimity.  In  this,  perhaps,  he  excels  even  Homer. 
The  firft  and  fecond  books  of  Paradife  Loft,  are  al- 
moft  a  continued  feries  of  the  higheft  fublime.  But 
his  fublimity  differs  from  that  of  Homer  j  which  is  al- 
ways accompanied  by  impetuofity  and  fire.  The  fub- 
lime of  Milton  is  a  calm,  and  amazing  grandeur.  Ho- 
mer warms  and  hurries  us  along  ;  Milton  fixes  us  in  a 
ftate  of  elevation  and  aftonifhment.  Homer's  fublim- 
ity appears  mod  in  his  defcription  of  actions  ;  Milton's 
in  that  of  wonderful  and  ftupendous  objects. 

But,  while  Milton  excels  mod  in  fublimity,  his 
work  abounds  in  the  beautiful,  the  pleafing,  and  the 
tender.  When  the  fcene  is  in  Paradife,  the  imagery 
is  gay  and  fmiling.  His  defcriptions  mow  a  fertile  im* 
agination  °,  and  in  his  fi miles  he  is  remarkably  happy. 
If  faulty,  it  is  from  their  too  frequent  allufions  to  mat- 
ters of  learning,  and  to  ancient  fables.  It  mud  alfo 
be  confeiTed,  that  there  is  a  falling  off  in  the  latter 
part  of  Paradife  Loft. 

The  language  and  verification  of  Milton  have  high 
merit.  His  blank  verfe  is  harmonious  and  diverfified  j 
and  his  flyle  is  full  of  majefty.  There  may  be  found 
indeed  fome  profaic  lines  in  his  poem*  But  in  a  work- 
fo  long  and  fo  harmonious  thefe  may  be  forgiven. 
W  % 


234  DRAMATIC   POETRY." 

Paradife  Loft,  amid  beauties  of  every  kind,  has  rfian*/ 
inequalities.  No  high  and  daring  genius  was  ever  uni- 
formly corre&.  Milton  is  too  frequently  theological 
and  metaphyfical ;  his  words  are  often  technical  •,  and 
he  is  affecledly  oftentatious  of  his  learning.  Many  of 
his  faults  however  are  to  be  imputed  to  the  pedantry 
of  his  age.  He  difcovers  a  vigour,  a  grafp  of  genius, 
equal  to  every  thing  great  ;  fometimes  he  rifes  above 
every  other  poet  ;  and  fometimes  he  falls  below  him- 
felf. 


DRAMATIC  FOETRY.     TRAGEDY. 

IN  all  civilized  nations  dramatic  poetry  has 
been  a  favourite  arnufement.  It  divides  itfelf  into  the 
two  forms  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  Of  thefe,  trage- 
dy is  the  mod  dignified  ;  as  great  and  ferious  objects 
Hitereft  us  more  than  little  axid  ludicrous  ones.  The 
former  refts  on  the  high  paffions,  the  virtues,  crimes* 
and  fufferings  of  mankind  y  the  latter  on  their  hu- 
mours, follies,  and  pleafures  j  and  ridicule  is  its  folc 
inflrument. 

Tragedy  is  a  direct  imitation  of  human  manners  and 
actions.  It  does  not,  like  an  epic  poem,  exhibit  char- 
acters by  defcription  or  narration  ;  it  fets  the  perfon- 
ages  before  us,  and  makes  them  act  and  fpeak  with  pro- 
priety. This  fpecies.  of  writing  therefore  requires 
deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart ;  and,  when  hap- 
pily executed,  it  has  the  power  of  railing  the  ftrongeft 
emotions. 

In  its  general  drain  and  fpirit,  tragedy  is  favourable. 
to  vutue.     Characters  of  honour  claim  our  refpecT:  and 


DRAMATIC  POETRY.  235 

approbation  ;  and,  to  raife  indignation,  we  mud  paint 
a,  perfon  in  the  odious  colours  of  vice  and  depravity. 
Virtuous  men,  indeed,  are  often  reprefented  by  the 
tragic  poet  as  unfortunate ;  for  this  happens  in  real 
life.  But  he  always  engages  our  hearts  in  their  be- 
half ;  and  never  reprefents  vice  as  finally  triumphant 
and  happy.  Upon  the  fame  principle,  if  bad  men 
fucceed  in  their  defigns,  they  are  yet  finally  conducted 
to  punifhment.  It  may  therefore  be  concluded  that 
tragedies  are  moral  compofitions* 

It  is  affirmed  by  Ariftotle,  that  the  defign  of  tragedy 
is  to  purge  our  paffions  by  means  of  pity  and  terror. 
But  perhaps  it  would  have  been  more  accurate,  to  havs 
faid,  that  the  object  of  this  fpecies  of  compofition  is  to 
improve  our  virtuous  fenfibility.  If  a  writer  excite  our 
pity  for  the  afflicted,  infpire  us  with  proper  fentiments 
on  beholding  the  viciflitudes  of  life,  and  ftimulate  us 
to  avoid  the  misfortunes  of  others  by  exhibiting  their 
errors,  he  has  accompliihed  all  the  moral  purpofes  of 
tragedy. 

In  a  tragedy  it  is  neceflary  to  have  an  interefting 
flory,  and  that  the  writer  conduct  it  in  a  natural  and 
probable  manner.  For  the  end  of  tragedy  is  not  fo 
much  to  elevate  the  imagination,  as  to  affect  the 
heart.  This  principle,  which  is  founded  on  the 
cleared  reafon,  excludes  from  tragedy  all  machinery, 
or  fabulous  intervention  of  gods.  Ghofts  alone  from 
their  foundation  in  popular  belief,  have  maintained 
their  place  in  tragedy. 

To  promote  an  im  pre  (lion  of  probability,  the  flory 
€>f  a  tragedy,  according  to  fome  critics,  mould  never  be 
9,  pure  fiction,  but  ought  to  be  built  on  real  facts. 
This,  however,  is  carrying  the  matter  too  far.  For  a 
fictitious  tale,    if  properly  conducted,  will  melt  the 


t%6  DRAMATIC   POETRY; 

heart  as  much  as  real  hiftory^  Hence  the  tragic  poet 
mixes  many  fictitious  circumftances  with  well-known- 
fads.  Mod  readers  never  think  of  feparating  the  hif- 
torical  from  the  fabulous.  They  attend  only  to  what 
is  probable,  and  are  touched  by  events,  that  referable 
nature.  Accordingly  fome  of  the  moil  afTecYmg  trag- 
edies are  entirely  fi£titious  in  their  fubje&s.  Such, 
are  the  Fair  Penitent,  Douglas,  and  the  Orphan. 

In  its  origin,  tragedy  was  rude  and  imperfecl:.  A- 
mong  the  Greeks  it  was  at  firft  nothing  more  than  the 
fong  which  was  fung  at  the  feftival  of  Bacchus* 
Thefe  fongs  were  fometimes  fung  by  the  whole  compa-* 
ny,  and  fometimes  by  feparate  bands,  anfwering  alter* 
nately  to  each  other,  and  making  a  chorus.  To  give 
this  entertainment  fome  variety,  Thefpis,  who  lived  a- 
bout  five  hundred  years  before  the  Chriftian  era,  in^ 
troduced  a  perfon  between  the  fongs,  who  made  a  re- 
citation in  verfe.  iEfchylus,  who  lived  fifty  years  af* 
ter  him,  introduced  a  dialogue  between  two  perfons 
or  adtors,  comprehending  fome  interefting  {lory  j  and 
placed  them  on  a  ftage  adorned  with  fcenery.  The 
drama  now  began  to  affume  a  regular  form  5  and  was 
foon  *  after  brought  to  perfection  by  Sophocles  and 
Euripides. 

It  thus  appears  that  the  chorus  was  the  foundation- 
of  tragedy.  But,  what  is  remarkable,  the  dramatic 
dialogue,  which  was  only  an  addition  to  it,  at  length 
became  the  principal  part  of  the  entertainment  y  and 
the  chorus,  lofing  its  dignity,  came  to  be  accounted  on- 
ly an  accefTory  in  tragedy.  At  laft,  in  modern  trag* 
edy,  it  has  entirely  difappeared  ;  and  its  abfence  from 
the  ftage,  forms  the  chief  diftiaction  between  the  an- 
cient and  modern  drama. 


DRAMATIC    P0ETRT.  237 

The  chorus,  it  muft  be  allowed,  rendered  tragedy 
more  magnificent,  inftructive,  and  moral.  But  on  the 
other  hand  it  was  unnatural,  and  lefTened  the  intereft 
of  the  piece.  It  removed  the  reprefentation  from  the 
refemblance  of  life.  It  has  accordingly  been  with 
propriety  excluded  from  the  ftage. 

The  three  unities  of  action,  place,  and  time,  have 
been  confidered,  as  eflential  to  the  proper  -conduct  of 
dramatic  fable.  Of  thefe  three,  unity  of  action  is  un- 
doubtedly mod  important.  This  confifts  in  the  rela- 
tion which  all  the  incidents  introduced  bear  to  fome 
defign  or  effect,  combining  them  naturally  into  one 
whole.  This  unity  of  fubject'is  moft  eflential  to  trag- 
edy. For  a  multiplicity  of  plots,  by  detracting  the  at- 
tention, prevents  the  paffions  from  rifing  to  any  height. 
Hence  the  abfurdity  of  two  independent  actions  ia 
the  fame  play.  There  may  indeed  be  underplots  y 
but  the  poet  fhould  make  thefe  fubfervient  to  the 
main  action.  They  fhould  confpire  to  bring  forward 
the  cataftrophe  of  the  play. 

Of  a  Separate  and  independent  action,  or  intrigue^ 
there  is  a  clear  example  in  Addifon's  Cato.  The  fub- 
ject  of  this  tragedy  is  the  death  of  Cato,  a  noble  per- 
fonage,  and  fupported  by  the  author  with  much  digni- 
ty. But  all  the  love-fcenes  in  the  play  •,  the  paflion 
of  Cato's  two  fons  for  Lucia,  and  that  of  Juba  for 
Cato's  daughter,  are  mere  epifodes.  They  break  the 
unity  of  the  fubject,  and  form  a  very  unfeafonable 
junction  of  gallantry  with  high  fentiments  of  patri^ 
otifm. 

Unity  of  action  muft  not,  however,  be  confounded 
with  fimplicity  of  plot.  Unity  and  fimplicity  import 
different  things  in  dramatic  compofition.  The  plot  is 
fimple,  when  a  fmall  number  of  incidents  is  introduo 


23&  DRAMATIC    POETRY. 

cd  into  it.  With  refpect  to  plots,  the  ancients  were 
more  fimple  than  the  moderns.  The  Greek  trage- 
dies appear,  indeed,  to  be  too  naked,  and  deftitute  of 
interefting  events.  The  moderns  admit  a  much  great- 
er variety  of  incidents  ;  which  is  certainly  an  improve- 
ment, as  it  renders  the  entertainment  more  animated 
and  more  inftructive.  It  may,  however,  be  carried 
too  far  ;  for  an  overcharge  of  action  and  intrigue  pro.- 
duces  perplexity  and  embarr  ailment.  Of  this,  the 
Mourning  Bride  of  Congreve  is  an  example.  The  in- 
cidents fucceed  each  other  too  rapidly  ;  and  the  cataf- 
trophe,  which  ought  to  be  plain  and  fimple,  is  artificial 
and  intricate. 

Unity  of  action  muft  be  maintained,  not  only  in 
the  general  conftruction  of  the  fable,  but  in  all  the 
acts  and  fcenes  of  the  play.  The  divifion  of  every 
play  mto  five  acts  is  founded  merely  on  common, 
practice,  and  the  authority  of  Horace  : 

Neve  minor,  neu  Fit  quinto  produ&ior  aftit 
Fabula* 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  which  fixes  this  rule,. 
On  the  Greek  ftage  the  divifion  by  acts  was  unknown. 
The  word  act  never  occurs  once  in  the  Poetics  of 
Ariftotle.  Practice,  however,  has  eftablifhed  this  di- 
vifion 5  and  the  poet  muft  be  careful  that  each  act: 
terminate  in  a  proper  place.  The  firft  act  fhould 
contain  a  clear  expofition  of  the  fubject.  It  fhould 
excite  curiofity,  and  introduce  the  perfonages  to  the 
acquaintance  of  the  fpectators.  During  the  fecond, 
third,  and  fourth  acts,  the  plots  mould  gradually  thick- 
en. The  paffions  mould  be  kept  conftantly  awake. 
There  fhould  be  no  fcenes  of  idle  conversion,  or 
mere  declamation.     The  fufjenfe  and.  concern  of  the 


DRAMATIC   POETRY.  239 

fpe&ators  fhould  be  excited  more  and  more.  This  is 
the  great  excellency  of  Shakefpeare.  Sentiment,  paf- 
fion,  pity,  and  terror,  mould  pervade  every  tragedy. 

In  the  fifth  act,  which  is  the  feat  of  the  cataftrophe, 
the  author  mould  mod  fully  difplay  his  art  and  genius. 
The  firft  requifite  is,  that  the  unravelling  of  the  plot 
be  brought  about  by  probable  and  natural  means.  Sec- 
ondly, the  cataftrophe  fhould  be  fimple,  depending  on 
few  events,  and  including  but  few  perfons.  Paflionate 
fenfibility  languiflies  when  divided  among  many  objects. 
Laflly,  in  the  cataftrophe  every  thing  mould  be  warm 
and  glowing  \  and  the  poet  muft  be  fimple,  ferious, 
and  pathetic  ;  ufing  no  language  but  that  of  nature. 

It  is  not  effential  to  the  cataftrophe  of  a  tragedy, 
that  it  end  happily.  Sufficient  diftrefs  and  agitation 
with  many  tender  emotions  may  be  raifed  in  the 
courfe  of  the  play.  But  in  general  the  fpirit  of  trag- 
edy leans  to  the  fide  of  leaving  the  impreffion  of  virtu- 
ous forrow  ftrong  upon  the   mind. 

A  curious  queftion  here  occurs  :  How  happens  it 
that  the  emotions  of  forrow  in  tragedy  afford  gratifi- 
cation to  the  mind  ?  It  feems  to  be  the  conftitution  of 
our  nature,  that  all  the  focial  paflions  fhould  be  attend- 
ed with  pleafure.  Hence  nothing  is  more  pleafing 
than  love  and  friend  Chip.  Pity  is  for  wife  ends  a  ftrong 
inftinct  j  and  it  neceffarily  produces  fome  diftrefs  on 
account  of  its  fympathy  with  fuflerers.  The  heart  is 
at  the  fame  moment  warmed  by  kindnefs,  and  afflicted 
by  diftrefs.  Upon  the  whole,  the  ftate  of  the  mind 
is  agreeable.  We  are  pleafed  with  ourfelves,  not  on- 
ly for  our  benevolence,  but  for  our  fenfibility.  The 
pain  of  fympathy  is  alfo  diminifhed  by  recollecting 
that  the  diftrefs  is  not  real  ;  and  by  the  power  of 
action  and  fentiment,  of  language  and  poetry. 


•J 40  HRAMATIC    POETRY. 

After  treating  of  the  a&s  of  a  play  it  is  proper  to 
notice  the  fcenes.  The  entrance  of  a  new  perfon  up- 
on the  ftage,  forms  what  is  called  a  new  fcene.  Thefe 
fcenes,  or  fucceffive  converfations,  fnould  be  clofely 
connected  ;  and  much  of  the  art  of  dramatic  compo- 
sition confifts  in  maintaining  this  connexion.  For 
this  purpofe  two  rules  muft  be  obferved.  i.  During 
the  courfe  of  one  a£t  the  ftage  fhould  never  be  left 
empty  a  moment,  for  this  would  make  a  gap  in  the 
representation.  Whenever  the  ftage  is  evacuated,  the 
a£l  is  clofed.  This  rule  is  generally  obferved  by 
French  tragedians  ;  but  it  is  much  neglected  by  the 
Englilh.  2.  No  perfon  fhould  come  upon  the  ftage, 
or  leave  it,  without  fome  apparent  reafon.  If  this  rule 
be  negle&ed,  the  dramatis  perfonse  are  little  better 
than  fo  many  puppets  ;  for  the  drama  profefles  imi- 
tation of  real  tranfa&ions. 

To  unity  of  action,  critics  have  added  the  unities 
of  time  and  place.  Unity  of  place  requires  the  fcene 
never  to  be  (hifted  ;  that  the  action  of  the  play  con- 
tinue in  the  fame  place  where  it  began.  Unity  of 
time,  ftri£tly  taken,  requires  that  the  time  of  the  ac- 
tion be  no  longer  than  the  time  allowed  for  the  rep- 
resentation of  the  play.  Ariftotle  however  permits 
the  a£lion  to  comprehend  a  whole  day.  Thefe  rules 
are  intended  to  bring  the  imitation  nearer  to  reality. 

Among  the  Greeks  there  was  no  divifion  of  acls. 
In  modern  times  the  practice  has  prevailed  of  Append- 
ing the  fpeclacle  fome  little  time  between  the  acls. 
This  practice  gives  latitude  to  the  imagination,  and 
renders  ftricl  confinement  to  time  and  place  lefs  necef- 
fary.  Upon  this  account  therefore  too  ftricl  an  ob- 
servance of  thefe  unities  fhould  not  be  preferred  to 
higher  beauties  of  execution,  nor  to  the  iutrodu&ion 


TRAGEDT.  24  X 

of  more  pathetic  fitu?.tions.  But  tranfgreffions  of 
thefe  unities,  though  they  maybe  often  advantageous, 
ought  not  to  be  too  frequent-,  nor  violent.  Hurrying 
the  fpe&ator  from  one  diftant  city  to  another,  or 
making  feveral  days  or  weeks  pafs  during  the  repre- 
sentation, would  fhock  the  imagination  too  much,  and 
therefore  cannot  be  allowed  in  a  dramatic  writer. 

Having  examined  dramatic  action,  we  (hall  now 
attend  to  the  characters  mod  proper  to  be  exhibited 
in  a  tragedy.  Several  critics  affirm  that  the  nature  of 
tragedy  requires  the  principal  perfonages  to  be  always 
of  high  or  princely  rank;  as  the  fufFerings  of "  fuch 
perfons  feize  the  heart  the  moil  forcibly.  But  this  is 
more  fpecious  than  folid.  For  the  diilrefles  of  Def- 
demona,  Monimia,  and  Belvidera,  intcreft  us  as  much 
as  if  they  had  been  princefTes  or  queens.  It  is  fufH« 
cient,  that  in  tragedy  there  be  nothing  degrading  or 
mean  in  the  perfonages  exhibited.  High  rank  may 
render  the  fpectacle  more  fplendid  ;  but  it  is  the  tale 
itfelf,  and  the  art  of  the  poet,  that  make  it  interest- 
ing and  pathetic. 

In  defcribing  his  characters,  the  poet  fhould  be 
careful  fo  to  order  the  incidents  which  relate  to  them, 
as  to  imprefs  the  fpectators  with  favourable  ideas  of 
virtue,  and  of  the  divine  adminiftration.  Pity  fhould 
be  raifed  for  the  virtuous  in  diftrefs  ;  and  the  author 
flioutd  ftudioufly  beware  of  making  fuch  reprefenta- 
tions  of  life  as  would  render  virtue  an  object  of  aver- 
sion. 

Unmixed  characters,  either  of  good  or  ill  men,  arc 

not,  in  the  opinion  of  Ariftotle,  fit  for  tragedy.     Foi 

the  diftreffes  of  the  former,  as  unmerited,  hurt  us  ; 

and  the  fufferings  of  the  latter  excite  no  compaJliot* 

X 


242  TRAGEDY. 

Mixed  characters  afford  the  beft  field  for  difplaying, 
without  injury  to  morals,  the  viciffitudes  of  life. 
They  intereft  us  the  molt  deeply  ;  and  their  did  reffes 
are  moR  inftruCtive  when  reprefented  as  fpringing 
out  of  their  own  paflions,  or  as  originating  in  fome 
weaknefs  incident  to  human  nature. 

The  Greek  tragedies  are  often  founded  on  mere  def- 
tiny  and  inevitable  misfortunes.  Modern  tragedy  aims 
at  a  higher  objeCt,  and  takes  a  wider  range;  as  it 
fhows  the  direful  effects  of  ambition,  jealoufy,  love, 
refentment,  and  every  ftro'ng  emotion.  But  of  all  the 
paflions  which  furnifh  matter  for  tragedy,  love  has 
mod  occupied  the  modern  ftage.  To  the  ancient  the- 
atre love  was  ahnoft  unknown.  This  proceeded  from 
the  national  manners  of  the  Greeks,  which  encourag- 
ed a  greater  feparation  of  the  fexes  than  takes  place  in 
modern  times  ;  and  did  not  admit  female  aCtors  upon 
the  ancient  ftag€  •,  a  eircum fiance  which  operated 
againft  the  introduction  of  love  ftories.  No  folid  rea- 
fon,  however,  can  be  affigned  for  this  predominancy 
of  love  upon  the  ftage.  Indeed  it  not  only  limits  the 
natural  extent  pf  tragedy,  but  degrades  its  majefty. 
Mixing  it  with  the  great  and  folemn  revolutions  of 
human  fortune,  tends  to  give  tragedy  the  air  of  gallant-,, 
ry  and  juvenile  entertainment.  Without  any  aflift- 
ance  from  love,  the  drama  is  capable  of  producing  its 
higheft  effe£ts  upon  the  mind. 

Befide  the  arrangement  of  his  fubjeCt,  and  the  con- 
duCt  of  his  perfonages,  the  tragic  poet  muft  attend  to 
the  propriety  pf  his  fentiments.  Thefe  muft  be  fuit- 
ed  to  the  characters  of  the  perfcns  to  whom  they  are 
attributed,  and  to  the  fituations  in  which  they  are 
placed.  It  is  chiefly  in  the  pathetic  parts,  that  the 
difficulty  and  importance  of  this  rule  are  greateft, 


TRACED?.  243' 

We  go  to  a  tragedy,  expeQing  to  be  moved  ;  and,  if 
the  poet  cannot  reach  the  heart,  he  has  no  tragic  mer- 
it ;  and  we  return  cold  and  difappointed  from  the 
performance. 

To  paint  and  to  excite  paflion  flrongly,  are  preroga- 
tives of  genius.  They  require  not  only  ardent  fenfi- 
ability,  but  the  power  of  entering  deeply  into  charac- 
ters. It  is  here,  that  candidates  for  the  drama  are  lead 
fuccefsfuL  A  man  under  the  agitation  of  paflion 
rhakes  known  his  feelings  in  the  glowing  language  of 
fenfibility.  He  does  not;  coolly  defcribe  what  his 
feelings  are  y  yet  this  fort  of  fecondary  defcription 
tragic  poets  often  give  us  inftead  of  the  primary  and 
native  language  of  paflion.  Thus  in  Addifon's  Cato, 
when  Lucia  confefles  to  Portius  her  love  for  him,  but 
fwears  that  fhe  will  never  marry  him,  Portius,  inftead 
of  giving  way  to  the  language  of  grief  and  aftonifrV 
ment,  only  defcribes  his  feelings  : 

Fix'd  in  aftonifiiment,  I  gaze  upon  thee, 
Like  one  juft  blafted  by  a  ftroke  from   heaven. 
Who  pants  for  breath,  and  flifFens  yet  alive' 
In  dreadful  looks  j   a  monument  of  wrath. 

This  might  have  proceeded  from  a  byftander,  or  an 
indifferent  perfon  -9  but  it  is  altogether  improper  in  the 
mouth  of  Portius.  Similar  to  this  defcriptive  language 
are  the  unnatural  and  forced  thoughts,  which  tragic 
poet's  fometirnes  employ,  to  exaggerate  the  feelings  of 
perfons,  whom  they  wifh  to  paint,  as  ftrongly  moved. 
Thus,  when  Jane  Shore  on  meeting  her  hufband  in 
diftrefs,  and  finding  that  he  had  forgiven  her,  calls  on 
the  rains  to  give  her  their  drops,  and  to  the  fprings  to 
lend  her  their  dreams,  that  fhe  may  have  a  conftant 
fupply  of  tears  ;  we  fee  plainly  that  it  is  not  Ja&e 


244  TRAGEDY. 

Shore  that  fpeaks  ;  but  the  poet  himfelf,  who  is  {train- 
ing his  fancy,  and  fpurring  up  his  genius,  to  fay 
fomething  uncommonly  ftrong  and  lively. 

The  language  of  real  paffion  is  always  plain  and 
flmple.  It  abounds  indeed  in  figures,  that  exprefs  a 
difturbed  and  impetuous  ftate  of  mind  j  but  never  em- 
ploys any  for  parade  and  embellifhment.  Thoughts* 
fuggefted  by  paffion,  are  natural  and  obvious  ;  and 
not  the  offspring  of  refinement,  fubtilty,  and  wit. 
Paffion  neither  reafons,  fpeculates,  nor  declaims  5  its 
language  is  fhort,  broken,  and  interrupted.  The 
French  tragedians  deal  too  much  in  refinement  and 
declamation.  The  Greek  tragedians  adhere  moil  to 
nature,  and  are  mod  pathetic.  This  too  is  the  great 
excellency  of  Shakefpeare.  He  exhibits  the  true  lan» 
guage  of  nature  and  paffion. 

Moral  fentiments  and  reflections  ought  not  to  recur 
Very  frequently  in  tragedy.  When  unfeafonably 
crowded,  they  lofe  their  efFecl:,  and  convey  an  air  of 
pedantry.  When  introduced  with  propriety,  they 
give  dignity  to  the  compofition.  Cardinal  Woolfey's 
foliloquy  on  his  fall  is  a  fine  inftance  of  the  felicity 
with  which  they  may  be  employed.  Much  of  the 
merit  of  Addifon's  Cato  depends  on  that  moral  turn 
of  thought  which  diftinguifhes  it. 

The  ftyle  and  verification  of  tragedy  mould  be  free, 
eafy,  and  varied.  Englifh  blank  verfe  is  happily  fuit- 
ed  to  this  fpecies  of  compofition.  It  has  fufficient  ma- 
jefty,  and  can  defcend  to  the  fimple  and  familiar  5  it 
admits  a  happy  variety  of  cadence,  and  is  free  from 
the  conftraint  and  monotony  of  rhyme.  Of  the 
French  tragedies  it  is  a  great  misfortune,  that  they  are 
always  in  rhyme.     For  it  fetters  the  freedom  of  the 


GREEK   TRAGEDY.  245 

tragic  dialogue,  fills  it  with  a  languid  monotony,  and 
is  fatal  to  the  power  of  paflion. 

With  regard  to  thofe  fplendid  comparisons  in  rhyme, 
and  thofe  firings  of  couplets,  with  which  it  wajs  fome 
time  ago  fafhionable  to  conclude  the  acts  of  a  tragedy, 
and  fometimes  the  moil  interefting  fcenes,  they  are 
now  laid  afide,  and  regarded  not  only  as  childifh  or- 
naments, but  as  perfect  barbarians* 


GREEK  TRAGEDY. 


A  HE  plot  of  Greek  tragedy  was  exceedingly 
fimple  ;  the  incidents  few  ;  and  the  conduct  very 
exact  with  regard  to  the  unities  of  action,  time,  and 
place.  Machinery,  or  the  invention  of  gods,  was  em- 
ployed ;  and,  what  was  very  faulty,  the  final  unravel- 
ling was  fometimes  made  to  turn  upon  it.  Love,  one 
or  two  inftances  excepted,  was  never  admitted  into 
Greek  tragedy.  A  vein  of  morality  and  religion  al- 
ways runs  through  it ;  but  they  employed  lefs  than 
the  moderns,  the  combat  of  thepaflions.  Their  plots 
were  all  taken  from  the  ancient  traditionary  ftories  of 
their  own   nation. 

#iEfchylus,  the  father  of  Greek  tragedy,  exhibits 
both  the  beauties  and  defects  of  an  early  original 
writer.  He  is  bold,  nervous,  and  animated  ;  but  very 
obfcure,  and  difficult  to  be  underftood.  His  ftyle  is 
highly  metaphorical,  and  often  harfli  and  tumid.  He 
abounds  in  martial  ideas  and  defcriptions,  has  much 
fire  and  elevation,  and  little  tendernefs.  He  alfo  do' 
lights  in  the  marvellous. 
X2 


2^6  CREEK  TRAGEDY. 

The  mod  mafterly  of  the  Greek  tragedians  is  So- 
phocles. He  is  the  mod  correct  in  the  conduct  of 
his  fubjedts  ;  the  mod  juft  and  fublime  in  his  fenti- 
ments. In  defcriptive  talents  he  is  alfo  eminent* 
Euripides  is  accounted  more  tender  than  Sophocles  ; 
he  is  fuller  of  moral  fentiments  \  but  he  is  lefs  correct 
in  the  conduct  of  his  plays.  His  expofitions  of  his 
fubjects  are  lefs  artful  ;  and  the  fongs  of  his  chorus, 
though  very  poetic,  are  lefs  connected  with  the  prin- 
cipal action,  than  thofe  of  Sophocles.  Both  of  them, 
however,  have  high  merit,  as  tragic  poets.  Their 
ftyle  is  elegant  and  beautiful ;  and  their  fentiments 
for  the  mod  part  juft.  They  fpeak  with  the  Voice  of 
nature  ;  and  in  the  midft  of  fimplicity  they  are  touch- 
ing and  interesting. 

Theatrical  reprefentation  on  the  ftages  of  Greece 
and  Rome  was  in  many  refpe£ls  very  fingular,  and 
widely  different  from~  that  of  modern  times.  The 
fongs  of  the  chorus  were  accompanied  by  inftrument- 
al  mufic  •,  and  the  dialogue  part  had  a  modulation  of 
its  own,  and  might  be  fet  to  notes.  It  has  alfo  been 
thought  that  on  the  Roman  ftages  the  pronouncing 
and  gcfticulating  parts  were  fometimes  divided,  and 
performed  by  different  actors.  The  actors  in  tragedy 
wore  a  long  robe  *,  they  were  railed  upon  coth'urni, 
and  played  in  marks  \  thefc  mafks  were  painted  ;  and 
the  actor  by  turning  the  different  profiles  exhibited 
different  emotions  to  the  auditors.  '  This  contrivance* 
however,  was  attended   by  many  disadvantages. 


tRENCH   TRAGEDT.  Itf 


FRENCH   TRAGEDY. 


I. 


LN  the  compofitions  of  fome  French  dramatic 
writers,  tragedy  has  appeared  with  great  luftre  ;  par- 
ticularly Corneille,  Racine,  and  Voltaire.  They  have 
improved  upon  the  ancients,  by  introducing  more  in- 
cidents, a  greater  variety  of  paflions,  and  a  fuller  dif- 
play  of  characters.  Like  the  ancients,  they  excel  in 
regularity  of  conduct  ;  and  their  ftyle  is  poetical 
and  elegant.  But  to  an  Englifli  tafte  they  want 
(trength  and  paffion,  and  are  too  declamatory  and  re- 
fined. They  feem  afraid  of  being  too  tragic  ;  and  it 
was  the  opinion  of  Voltaire,  that  to  the  perfection  of 
tragedy,  it  is  neceflary  to  unite  the  vehemence  and 
adlion  of  the  Englifh  theatre  with  the  corre£lnefs 
and  decorum  of  the  French'. 

Corneille,  the  father  of  French  tragedy,  is  diftin- 
guifhed  by  majefty  of  fentiment  and  a  fruitful  imagi- 
nation. His.  genius  was  rich,  but  more  turned  to  the 
epic  than  the  tragic  vein.  He  is  magnificent  anci 
fplendid,  rather  than  touching  and  tender.  He  is  full 
of  declamation,  impetuous  ancl  extravagant. 

In  tragedy,  Racine  is  fuperior  to  Corneille.  He 
wants,  indeed,  the  copioufnefs  of  Corneille  ;  but  he  is 
free  from  his  bombalt,  and  excels  him  greatly  in  ten- 
ifernefs,  The  beauty  of  his  language  and  verfifica- 
tion  is  uncommon  *  and  he  has  managed  his  rhymes 
with  fuperior  advantage. 

Voltaire  is  not  inferior  to  his  pretfeceffow  in  the 
drama;  and  in  one  article  he  has  outdone  them,  the 
delicate  and  intereiting  fituations  he  has  introduced. 


248  ENGLISH   TRACED*. 

Here  lies  his  chief  ftrength.  Like  his  predeceflbrs, 
however,  he  is  fometimes  deficient  in  force,  and  fome- 
times  too  declamatory.  His  charafters,  notwithftand- 
ing,  are  drawn  with  fpirit,  his  events  are  ftriking,  and 
his  fentiments  elevated.  * 


ENGLISH  TRAGEDY. 

XT  has  often  been  remarked  of  tragedy  ine 
Great  Britain,  that  it  is  more  ardent  than  that. of 
France,  but  more  irregular  and  incorreft.  It  has,, 
therefore,,  excelled  in  the  foul  of  tragedy.  For  the 
pathetic  mull  be  allowed  to  be  the  chief  excellence  o£ 
the  tragic  mufe. 

The  firft  object  on  the  Englifh  theatre,  is  the  great 
Shakefpeare.  In  extent  and  force  of  genius,  both 
for  tragedy  and  comedy,  he  is  unrivalled.  But  at  the 
fame  time  k  is  genius  fhooting  wild,  deficient  in  tafte, 
not  always  ehafte,  and  unafHfted  by  art  and  knowl- 
edge. Critieifm  has  been  exhaafled  in  commentaries 
upon  him  ;  yet  to  this  day  it  is  undecided,.-  whether 
his  beauties  or  defects  be  greatefi.  In  his  writings 
there  are  admirable  fcenes  and  panages  without  num- 
ber ;  but  there  is  not  one  of  his  plays  which  can  be 
pronounced  a  good  one.  Befide  extreme  irregulari- 
ties in  conduct,  and  grotefque  mixtures  of  the  ferious 
and  comic,  we  are  frequently  difiurbed  by  unnatural 
thoughts,  harlh  expremons,  and  a  certain  obfeure 
bombad,  and  play  upon  words.  Thefe  faults  are,, 
however,  compenfated  by  two  of  the  greatefi  excel- 
lencies a  tragic  poet  can  poffefs,  his  lively  and  di- 
terfified  painting  of  character,  and  his   ftrong  and 


ENGLISH   TRAGEDT.  24^ 

natural  exprefTions  of  paffion.  On  thefe  two  virtues 
his  merit  refts.  In  the  midfl  of  his  abfurdities  he 
interefts  and  moves  us  ;  fo  great  is  his  (kill  in  human 
nature,  and  fo  lively  his  reprefentations  of  it. 

He  poiTeiTes  alfo  the  merit  of  having  created  for 
himfelf  a  world  of  preternatural  beings.  His  witches* 
ghofts,  fairies,  and  fpirits  of  all  kinds,  are  fo  awful, 
myfterious,  and  peculiar,  as  flrongly  to  affecl  the  im- 
agination. His  two  mailer  pieces  are  his  Othello 
and  Macbeth.  With  regard  to  his  hxftorical  plays, 
they  are  neither  tragedies,  nor  comedies  ;  but  a  pe- 
culiar fpecies  of  dramatic  entertainment,  in  which  he 
defcribes  the  characters,  events,  and  manners  of  the 
times  of  which  he  treats. 

Since  Shakefpeare,  there  are  few  Englifli  dramatic 
writers,  whofe,whole  works  are  entitled  to  high  praifc 
There  are  feveral  tragedies,  however,  of  confiderable 
merit.  Lee's  Theodofi us  has  warmth  and  tendernefs, 
though  romantic  in  the  plan,  and  extravagant  in  the 
fentiments.  Otway  is  great  in  his  Orphan  and  Venice 
Preferved.  Perhaps,  however,  he  is  too  tragic  in 
thefe  pieces.  *  He  had  genius  and  ftrong  paffiohs, 
but  was  very  indelicate. 

The  tragedies  of  Rowe  abound  in  roorality  and  in 
elevated  fentiments.  His  poetry  is  good,  and  his  lan- 
guage pure  and  elegant.  He  is,  notwithstanding, 
too  cold  and  uninterefting •,  and  flowery,  rather  than 
tragic.  His  bed  dramas  are  Jane  Shore  and  the 
Fair  Penitent,  which  excel  in  the  tender  and  pathetic. 

Dr.  Young's  Revenge  difcovers  genius  and  fire  ; 
but  wants  tendernefs,  and  turns  too  much  on  the 
direful  paflions.  In  the  Morning  Bride  of  Congreve 
there   are   fine  fituations   and   much  good   poetry. 


'2$0  C0M2MV 

The  tragedies  of  Thomfon  are  too  foil  of  a  fl:ff* 
morality,  which  renders  them  dull  and  formal.  His 
Tancred  and  Sigifmunda  is  his  mafter- piece  ;  and  for 
the  plot,  characters,  and  fentiments,  juftly  deferves 
a  place  among  the  beft  Engliih  tragedies. 

A  Greek  tragedy  is  a  fimple  relation  of  an  intereft- 
ing  incident.  A  French  tragedy  is  a  feries  of  artful 
and  refined  conventions.  An  Englifli  tragedy  is  a 
combat  of  ftrong  paflions,  fet  before  us  in  all  their 
violence,  producing  deep  difafters,  and  filling  the 
fpectators  with  grief.  Ancient  tragedies  are  more 
natural  and  fimple  y  modern  more  artful  and  com- 
plex. 


G  O  M  ED  Y. 

1HE  ftrain  and  fpirit  of  comedy  difcriminate 
It  fufficiently  from  tragedy.  While  pity,  terror,  and. 
the  other  ftrong  paflions  form  the  province  of  the  lat- 
ter, the  fcle  .inftrdrnent  of  the  former  is  ridicule. 
Follies  and  vices,  and  whatever  in  the  human  charac- 
ter is  improper,  or  expofes  to  cenfure  and  ridicule,  are 
objects  of  comedy.  As  a  fatirical  exhibition  of  the 
improprieties  and  folIies»of  men,  it  is  ufeful  and' moral. 
It  is  commendable  by  this  fpecies  of  compofition  to 
correct  and  to  polifh  the  manners  cf  men.  Many 
vices  are  more  fuccefsfully  exploded  by  ridicule,  than 
by  ferlous  arguments.  It  is  poflible  however  to  em- 
ploy ridicule  improperly  ;  and  by  its  operation  to  do 
mifchief  inftead  of  good.  For  ridicule  is  far  from 
feeing  a  proper  teft  of  truth.     Licentious  writers  there* 


€OMEDY.  I-5.I 

fore  of  the  comic  clafs  have  often  cad  ridicule  on  ob- 
jects and  charadlers  which  did  not  deferve  it.  But 
this  is  not  the  fault  of  comedy,  but  of  the  turn  and 
genius  of  certain  writers.  In  the  harul-s  of  loofe  men, 
comedy  will  miflead  and  corrupt  ;  but  in  thofe  of 
virtuous  writers,  it  is  not  only  a  gay  and  innocent, 
but  a  laudable  and  ufeful  entertainment.  Englifh 
comedy,  however,  is  frequently  a  fchool  of  vice. 

The  rules  of  dramatic  action,  that  were  prefcribed 
for  tragedy,  belong  alfo  to  comedy.  A  comic  writer 
mud  obferve  the  unities  of  action,  time,  and  place. 
He  mud  attend  to  nature  and  probability.  The  imi- 
tation of  manners  ought  to  be  even  more  exact  in 
comedy  than  in  tragedy  •,  for  the  fubjects  of  comedy 
are  more  familiar  and  better  known. 

The  fubjects  of  tragedy  are  confined  to  no  age 
nor  country ;  but  it  is  otherwife  in  comedy.  For  the 
decorums  of  behaviour,  and  the  nice  difcriminations 
of  character  which  are  the  fubjects  of  comedy,  change 
with  time  and  country ;  and  are  never  fo  well  under- 
flood  by  foreigners,  as  by  natives.  We  weep  for  the 
heroes  of  Greece  and  Rome  ;  but  we  are  touched  by 
the  ridicule  of  fuch  manners  and  characters  only  as 
we  fee  and  know.  The  fcene  therefore  of  comedy 
fhould  always  be  laid  in  the  author's  own  country 
and  age.  The  comic  poet  catches  the  manners  living, 
as  they  rife. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  Plutus  and  Terence  did  not 
follow  this  rule.  The  fcene  of  their  comedies  is  laid 
in  Greece,  and  they  adopted  the  Greek  laws  and  cuf- 
ioms.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  comedy  was 
in  their  age  a  new  entertainment  in  Rome,  and  that 
ihey  were  contented  with  the  piaife  of  tranflating  ftle- 


$52  COMEDY. 

nander  and  other  comic  writers  of  Greece.  In  pofte- 
rior  times  the  Romans  had  tli€  "  Comoedia  Togata," 
or  what  was  fpunded  on  their  own  manners,  as  well 
as  the  "  Comoedia  Palliata,"  which  was  taken  from 
the  Greeks. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  comedy,  that  of  chara&er, 
and  that  of  intrigue.  In  the  laft,  the  plot  or  attion  of 
the  play  is  the  principal  obje£L  In  the  firft,  the  dif- 
play  of  a  peculiar  chara£ter  is  the  chief  point ;  and  to 
this  the  a£Hon  is  fubordinate.  The  French  abound 
moil  in  comedies  of  character.  Such  are  the  capital 
pieces  of  Moliere.  The  Englifh  have  inclined  more 
to  comedies  of  intrigue.  Such  are  the  plays  of  Con- 
greve  ;  and  in  general  there  is  more  ftory,  a£tion> 
and  buflle  in  Englifli,  than  in   French   comedy. 

The  perfection  of  comedy  is  to  be  found  in  a  prop- 
er mixture  of  thefe  two  kinds.  Mere  converfation 
without  an  interefting  (lory  is  infipid.  There  (hould 
ever  be  fo  much  intrigue,  as  to  excite  both  fears  and 
wifnes.  The  incidents  {hould  be  (Inking,  and  afford 
a  proper  field  for  the  exhibition  of  chara&er.  The 
piece  however  {hould  not  be  overcharged  with  in- 
trigue •,  for  this  would  be  to  convert  a  comedy  into  a 
novel. 

With  refpeft  to  characters  it  is  a  common  error  of 
comic  writers,  to  carry  them  much  beyond  real  life  ; 
indeed  it  is  very  difficult  to  hit  the  precife  point,  where 
wit  ends,  and  buffoonery  begins.  The  comedian  may 
exaggerate  j  but  good  fenfe  mult  teach  him  where 
to  Hop. 

In  comedy  there  ought  to  be  a  clear  diftinftion  in 
characters.  The  contrail  of  chara&ers  however  by 
pairs,  and  by  oppofites,  is  too  theatrical  and  affefled. 
It  is  the  perfection  of  art  to  conceal  art.    A  mafterly 


ANCIENT   COMEDY.  253 

writer  gives  us  his  chara&ers,  diftinguimed  rather  by 
fuch  fhades  of  diverfity,  as  are  commonly  found  in  fo- 
ciety,  than  marked  by  fuch  oppofitions,  as  are  feldom 
brought  into  actual  contraftin  any  of  the  circumftan- 
ces  of  life. 

The  ftyle  of  comedy  ought  to  be  pure,  lively,  and 
elegant,  generally  imitating  the  tone  of  polite  conver- 
fation,  and  never  defcending  into  grofs  expreflions. 
Rhyme  is  not  fuitable  to  comic  compofition  5  for  what 
has  poetry  to  do  with  the  converfation  of  men  in 
common  life  ?  The  current  of  the  dialogue  mould  be 
cafy  without  pertnefs,  and  genteel  without  flippancy. 
The  wit  (hould  never  be  (tudied,  nor  unfeafonable. 


ANCIENT   COMEDY. 

A  HE  ancient  comedy  was  an  avowed  fatire  a- 
gamft  particular  perfons,  brought  upon  the  ftage  by 
name.  Such  are  the  plays  of  Ariftophanes  ;  and 
compofitions  of  fo  fmgular  a  nature  illuftrate  well  the 
turbulent  and  licentious  (late  of  Athens.  The  mod 
illuftrious  perfonages,  generals  and  magiftrates,  were 
then  made  the  fubje&s  of  comedy.  Vivacity,  fatire, 
and  buffoonery  are  the  chara&eriftics  of  Ariftophanes. 
On  many  occafions  he  difplays  genius  and  force;  but 
his  performances  give  us  no  high  idea  of  the  attic 
tafte  for  wit  in  his  age.  His  ridicule  is  extravagant ; 
his  wit  farcical  •,  his  perfonal  raillery  cruel  and  biting  j 
and  his  obfcenity  intolerable. 

Soon  after  the  age  of  Ariftophanes  the  liberty  of 
attacking  perfons  by  name  on  the  ftage  was  prohibit* 
X*. 


2J4  ANCIENT    COMEDY. 

ed  by  law.  The  middle  comedy  then  took  its  rife* 
-Living  perfons  were  ftill  attacked,  but  under  fi£titious 
names.  -Of  thefe  pieces  we  have  no  remains.  They 
were  fucceeded  by  the  new  comedy  ;  when  it  became 
as  it  is  now,  the  bufinefs  of  the  ftage  to  exhibit  man- 
ners and  characters,  but  not  thofe  of  particular  per- 
fons. The  author  of  this  kind,  moil  celebrated  among 
the  Greeks,  was  Menander  ;  but  his  writings  are  per- 
ilhed. 

Of  the  new  comedy  of  the  ancients,  the only  re- 
mains are  the  plays  of  Plautus  and- Terence.  The 
firfb  is  eminent  for  the  vis  comica^  and  for  an  expref- 
five  phrafeology.  Ke  bears,  however,  many  marks 
of  the  rudenefs  of  the  dramatic  art  in  his  time.  He 
has  too  mi^ch  low  wit  and  fcurrility  ;  and  is  by  far 
too  quaint  and  full  of  conceit.  He  has  more  variety 
and  more  force  than  Terence;  and  his  characters., 
are  flrongly  marked,    though  fometimes  coarfe,ly. 

Terence  is  polifhed,  delicate,  and  elegant.  His 
ftyle  is  a  model  of  the  -moft  pure  and  graceful  latinity. 
His  dialogue  is  always  correct  and  decent  ;  and  his 
relations  have  a  pi&urefque  and  beautiful  fimplicity* 
His  morality,  is  in  general  unexceptionable  ;  his  fitu<- 
ations  are  interefiing  ;  and  many  of  his  fentiments 
touch  the  heart.  He  may  be  confidered  as  the  foundr 
er  of  ferious  comedy.  In  fprigfatlinefs  and  flrength 
he  is  deficient.  There  is  a  famenefs  in  his  characters 
and  plots;  and  he  is.faid  to  have  been  inferior,  to  . 
Menander,  whom  he  copied.  To  form  a  perfect 
comic  author,  the  fpirit  and  fire  of  Plautus  ought  .to 
fee  united  with  the.  grace  and  correCtnefs  of  .Terence* 


SPANISH    COMEDY, 


SPANISH     COMEDY. 

X  HE  moft  prominent  obje&  in  modern  come- 
dy is  the  Spanifh  theatre.  The  chief  comedians  of 
Spain  are  Lopez  de  Vega,  Guillen  and  Calderon. 
The  firft,  who  is  the  mod  famous  of  them,  wrote  a- 
bove  a  thoufand  plays  ;  and  was  infinitely  more  irreg- 
ular than  Shakefpeare.  He  totally  difregarded  the 
three  unities,  and  every  eftablifhed  rule  of  dramatic 
writing.  One  play  often  includes  many  years,  and 
even  the  whole  life  of  a  man.  The  fcene,  during  the 
firft:  aft  is  in  Spain  ;  the  next  in  Italy  ;  and  the  third 
in  Africa.  His  plays  are  chiefly  hiftorical,  and  are  a 
mixture  of  heroic  fpeeches,  ferious  incidents,  war  and 
daughter,  ridicule  and  buffoonery.  He  jumbles  to- 
gether chrillianity  and  paganifm,  virtues  and  vices, 
angels  and  gods.  Notwithstanding  his  faults,  he  pof*. 
feffed  genius,  and  great  force  of  imagination.  Many 
of  his  charadters  are  well  painted  *,  many  of  his  filia- 
tions are  happy  ■%  and  from  the  fource  of  his  rich  in- 
vention dramatic  writers  of  other  nations  have  fre- 
quently drawn  their  materials.  He  was  confcious 
himfelf  of  his  extreme  irregularities,  and  apologized 
for  them  from  the  prevailing  tafte  of  his  country- 
men. 


&$6  FRENCH   COMEBTc 


FRENCH    COMEDY. 

'V  | '  1 

X  HE  comic  theatre  of  Trance  is  allowed  to  be 
•correct,  chafte,  and  decent.  The  comic  author,  in 
whom  the  French  glory  moft,  is  Moliere.  In  the 
judgment  of  French  critics  he  has  nearly  reached  the 
fummit  of  perfe£Hon  in  his  art.  Nor  is  this  the  de- 
cifion  of  mere  partiality.  Moliere  is  the  fatirift  only 
of  vice  and  folly.  His  characters  were  peculiar  to 
his  own  times  ;  and  in  general  his  ridicule  was  juftly 
directed.  His  comic  powers  were  great ;  and  his 
pleafantry  is  always  innocent.  His  Mifanthrope  and 
Tartuffe  are  in  verfe,  and  conftitute  a  kind  of  digni- 
fied comedy,  in  which  vice  is  expofed  in  the  ftyle  of 
elegant  and  polite  fatire.  In  his  profe  comedies  there 
Is  a  profufion  of  ridicule  ;  but  the  poet  never  gives 
alarm  to  modefty,  nor  cafts  contempt  on  virtue. 
With  thefe  high  qualities  however  confiderable  defefts 
are  mingled.  In  unravelling  his  plots  he  is  unhappy  ; 
as  this  is  frequently  brought  on  with  too  little  prepa- 
ration, and  in  an  improbable  manner.  In  his  verfe 
comedies  he  is  not  always  fufficiently  interefting  ;  and 
he  is  too  full  of  long  fpeeches.  In  his  rifible  pieces  in 
profe  he  is  too  farcical.  But  upon  the  v/hole  it  may 
be  affirmed,  that  £sw  writers  ever  attained  fo  perfect- 
ly the  true  end  of  comedy.  His  Tartuffe  and  Avar^ 
sure  his  two  capital  produ6Uon$r 


TSNGUSH    COMEDY.  «57 


ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

-C  ROM  the  Englifh  theatre  is  naturally  expeft- 
sd  a  great  variety  of  original  characters  in  comedy9 
and  bolder  ftrokes  of  wit  and  humour  than  from  any 
other  modern  ftage.  Humour  is  in  fome  degree  pe- 
culiar to  England.  The  freedom  of  the  government, 
and  the  unreftrained  liberty  of  Englifh  manners,  arc 
favourable  to  humour  and  Angularity  of  character.  In 
France  the  influence  of  a  defpotic  court  fpreads  uni- 
formity over  the  nation.  Hence  comedy  has  a  more 
amplified  and  a  freer  vein  in  Britain  than  in  France. 
But  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  comic  fpirit  of  Brit- 
ain is  often  difgraced  by  indecency  and  licentioufnefs. 

The  firtl  age,  however,  of  Englifh  comedy  was  not 
infected  by  this  fpirit.  The  plays  of  Shakefpeare  and 
Ben  Johnfon  have  no  immoral  tendency.  The  com- 
edies of  the  former  difplay  a  ftrong,  creative  genius; 
but  are  irregular  in  conduct:.  They  are  fingularly  rich 
in  characters  and  manners  ;  but  often  defcend  to  pleafe 
the  mob.  Johnfon  is  more  regular,  but  fliff  and  pe- 
dantic ;  though  not  void  of  dramatic  genius.  Much 
fancy  and  invention,  and  many  fine  pafTages,  are  found 
in  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  But  in  gen- 
eral they  abound  in  romantic  incidents,  unnatural 
characters,  and  coarfe  allufions. 

Change  of  manners  has  rendered  the  comedies  of 
the  laft  age  obfolete.  For  it  is  the  exhibition  of  pre- 
vailing modes  and  characters,  that  gives  a  charm  to 
comedy.     Thus  Plautus  was  antiquated  to  the  Re- 


358  ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

mans  in  the  days  of  Auguftus.  But  to  the  honour  of 
Shakefpeare  his  Falftaff  is  (till  admired,  and  his  Merry 
Wives  of  Windfor  read  with  pleafure. 

After  the  reftoration  of  Charles  II.  the  licentioufnefs, 
which  polluted  the  court  and  nation,  feized  upon  com- 
edy. The  rake  became  the  predominant  character. 
Ridicule  was  thrown  upon  chaftity  andfobriety.  At 
the  end  of  the  play  indeed  the  rake  becomes  a  fober 
imn ;  but  through  the  performance  he  is  a  fine  gen- 
tleman, and  exhibits  a  picture  of  the  pleafurable  en- 
joyments of  life.  This  fpirit  of  comedy  had  the  worfl 
effeci  on  youth  of  both  fexes,  and  continued  to  the 
days  of  George  II. 

In  the  comedies  of  Dryden  there  are  many  ftrokes 
of  genius  ;  but  he  is  hafty  and  carelefs.  As  his  objedt 
was  to  pleafe,  he  followed  the  current  of  the  times, 
and  gave  way  to  indelicacy  and  licentioufnefs.  His 
indecency  was  at  times  fo  grofs,  as  to  occafion  a  pro- 
hibition of  his  plays  on  the  ftage. 

After  Dryden  flouriilied  Gibber,  Vanburgh,  Far- 
quhar,  and  Congreve.  Cibber  has  fprightlinefs  and  a 
pert  vivacity  ;  but  his  incidents  are  fo  forced  and  un- 
natural, that  his  performances  have  all  funk  into  ob- 
fcurity,  excepting  the  Carelefs  Hufband  and  The  Pro- 
voked Hufband.  Of  thefe  the  firft  is  remarkable  for 
the  eafy  politenefs  of  the  dialogue  ;  and  it  is  tolerably 
moral  in  its  conducl:.  The  latter,  in  which  Cibber 
was  aflifted  by  Vanburgh,  is  perhaps  the  beft  comedy  in 
the  Englifh  language ;  and  even  to  this  it  may  be  ob- 
jected, that  it  has  a  double  plot.  Its  characters  how- 
ever are  natural,  and  it  abounds  with  fine  painting  and 
iisppy  ilrokes  of  humour. 


ENGLISH    COMEDY.  255 

Wit,  fpirit,  and  eafe,  characterize  Sir  John  Van- 
burgh  -9  but  he  is  the  moft  indelicate  and  immoral  of 
all  our  comedians.  Congreve  undoubtedly  poffeffed 
genius.  He  is  witty  and  fparkling,  and  full  of  char- 
acter and  actiom  Indeed  he  overflows  with  wit ;  for 
it  is  often  introduced  unfeafonably  ;  and  in  general 
there  is  too  much  of  it  for  well-bred  conversation. 
Farquhar  is  a  light  and  gay  writer  ;  lefs  correal  and 
lefs  brilliant  than  Congreve  *,  but  he  has  more  eafe, 
and  much  of  the  vis  com'ica.  Like  Congreve  he  is 
licentious  ;  and  modefty  muft  turn  from  them  both 
with  abhorrence.  The  French  boaft  with  juftice  of 
the  fuperior-  decency  of  their  ftage,  and  fpeak  of  the 
Englifh  theatre  with  aftonifhment.  Their  philosophi- 
cal writers  afcribe  the  profligate  manners  of  London  to 
the  indelicacy  and  corruption  of  Englifh  comedy. 

Of  late  years  a  Senfible  reformation  has  taken  place 
in  Englifh  comedy.  Our  writers  of  comedy  now  ap- 
pear alhamed  of  the  indecency  of  their  predeceffors* 
They  may  be  inferior  to  Farquhar  and  Congreve  in 
fpirit,  eafe  and  wit  j  but  they  have  the  merit  of  being 
far  more  innocent  and  moral. 

To  the  French  Stage  we.  are  much  indebted  for  this 
reformation.  The  introduction  within  ,a  few  years  of 
a  graver  comedy  in  France,  called  the  ferious  or  tender 
comedy,  has  attracted  the  attention  and  approbation 
of  our  writers.  Gaiety  and  ridicule  are  not  excluded 
from  this  fpecies  of  comedy  •,  but  it  lays  the  chief 
ftrefs  on  tender  and  intereiting  Situations.  It  is  Senti- 
mental, and  touches  the  heart.  It  pleafes  not  fo  much 
by  the  laughter  it  excites,  as  by  the  tears  of  affection 
and  joy  whi/ch  it  draws  forth, 


2,6®  ENGLISH    COMEDY, 


This  form  of  comedy  was  oppoftd  in  France*  as  zwl 
unjuftifiable  innovation.  It  was  obje£ted  by  critics, 
that  it  was  not  founded  on  laughter  and  ridicule;, 
but  it  is  not  neceflary.  that  all,  comedies  be  formed.! 
on  one  precife  model.  Some  may  be  gay  5  fome  fe-~ 
rious  5  and  fome  may  partake  of  both  qualities.  Se- 
rious and  tender  comedy  has  no  right  to  exclude  gaiety- 
and  ridicule  from  the  ftage.  There  are  materials  for 
both  ;  and  the  ftage  is  richer,  for  the  innovation.  In^% 
general  it  may  be  confidered  as  a  mark  of  increafing 
pplitenefs  and  refinement,  when  thofe  theatrical  exhi- 
bitions become  fafhionable,  which  are  free  from  indel- 
icate fentiment  and  an  immoral  tendency. 


- — 


<& 


(f^- 


^THN 


Pew*:     Ast*y    'i*1 


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